The Empty Vessel
by ajayd
Summary: Harry is looking for any allies available as the Second War starts taking its toll. The last remaining Malfoy, both more and less difficult than before, presents an opportunity Harry cannot afford to pass up.
1. Discoveries at St Mungo's

THE EMPTY VESSEL  
  
Ass-covering clause: Harry Potter & co. are the property of JK Rowling, that filthy filthy rich bitch. I suck. I have no money. I have no job. I wish I could make a living writing. The real word sucks.  
  
Warnings: Slash dum-de-dum.  
  
Chapter 1: Discoveries at St. Mungo's  
  
Harry wondered aimlessly through the crowded corridors of St. Mungo's. The fact that he was doing this during visiting hours accounted partially for the sheer number of people bustling about – most with vexed expressions and edgy dispositions. Still, the number of visitors was also disproportionately high, compared with the time Harry had come to see Arthur Weasley; Harry was dismayed to notice this, but didn't even have to conclude why. He knew.  
  
The death count was rising, on both sides, and with it the number of wounded. The Death Eater attacks were getting more ambitious, with more casualties and more people getting caught in the crossfire. The Minister of Magic had incompetently organized a defense, but it was only providing the Death Eaters with obvious targets. Dumbledore was presumably scheming, but Harry certainly hadn't been let in on his plans. Indeed, most of what Harry did know was courtesy of Daily Prophet clippings that had been sent to him by Hermione.  
  
Ironically, Harry was not at St. Mungo's visiting any victims – Ron had been sent to Romania for a short stint over the summer to spend some time with his brother, and had managed to contract a virulent strain of dragon pox. By now it was almost the end of the summer, and Ron was still confined (most unhappily) to the Magical Bugs floor of St. Mungo's. He was not, however, without company – his family and Hermione visited often, as had Harry during the last two weeks. Previous to that he had been dwelling with the Dursleys and had been only permitted his usual restricted set of activities. Once he had moved to Grimmauld Place his options had expanded, though he hardly took advantage of them.  
  
He had spent the first month after Sirius' death alone, depressed, shut up in his barred room in the Dursley home. The distress and hysteria that had at first threatened to erupt was eventually repressed, with two consequences. On one hand, Harry found himself able to think clearly and rationally for the first time in what felt like ages; on the other hand, he felt so numb that he found it hard to care enough to think. His sense of urgency was gone.  
  
So there he was, wandering the corridors, feeling like Moses parting the sea of people and misery. He was untouchable. When he had walked all the corridors on the second floor, he went up to the third floor and walked those, barely taking in all the patients suffering from either potion or plant poisoning, taking even less notice of their visitors. Harry couldn't explain it, but he felt calmer amongst the masses of strangers than he did with his friends, or all the adults who claimed to care for him, or even anyone who knew him at all. No matter how much they loved him, he felt the pressure that they unknowingly (or sometimes, not so unknowingly) placed on. The wizarding world was falling apart, and no one could help looking to the great Harry Potter for salvation.  
  
Hermoine, Ginny, and Molly were downstairs with Ron; Harry knew that his behavior worried them, but, like with so much else, he found it hard to care. When they asked where he went during their visits, he told them that he wanted to see the victims, which was only partially true. He let them see him how they wanted – as the Boy-Who-Lived, visiting the wounded and sick, bring hope to those who might not live.  
  
On this day, Harry decided to do something he hadn't done on any of his other visits – wander the fourth floor, where the victims of Spell Damage resided. The only reason he had avoided that floor was because he didn't want to run the risk of running into Neville, or even of seeing Neville's parents: he didn't want to see anyone he knew. But on this day his normal wanderings had not settled his mind, and he felt a curious sense of anticipation, though for what he could not tell.  
  
The fourth floor looked just like he remembered it, except that now noise and commotion livened its drabness. Harry made his way through the people, not so easy now that he was actually noticing them. Gradually, the people in the corridors began thinning out, a pattern Harry recognized from the other floors – he was entering the long-term care wing, where terminal patients were kept. Morbid fascination pushed him to peek through the little windows on the doors, to see those that the rest of the world wished to forget about. When he came to Agnes and Broderick Longbottom's room, he stood and watched for a long time, though there was little to watch. Agnes was sleeping and Broderick was just shuffling in aimless patterns across the floor. Finally, Harry felt a shred of sympathy, and he welcomed the feeling. It was a drop of beauty in his cup of numbness, spreading and dissipating and tainting, so that nothing was left untouched; sending a faint flush of warmth through him.  
  
Harry moved on, feeling human again – if only faintly – for the first time in almost two months. Three doors down, he saw someone else he recognized: Narcissa Malfoy.  
  
He had to do a double take, almost walking away before realizing who she was. She lay almost motionless on her bed, eyes blinking occasionally, chest rising and falling slightly. Her hair was dull, her face almost unrecognizable without all the makeup, and her body was unnaturally thin. Harry's mind flashed to the only newspaper clip he had received from Ron – over a month ago now. Ron had been ecstatic at the turn of evens  
  
Apparently Lucius Malfoy had been killed shortly after his imprisonment in an attempt to escape the now Dementor-free Azkaban. This article Hermione had sent him. It was the follow-up a week later that Ron had sent him.  
  
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DEATH, DEMENTIA, AND DISAPPEARANCE  
  
Just a week after the death of notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, the Malfoy family gardener, Gergen Tress, found Narcissa Malfoy unresponsive and slumped over a plate of food in her dining room, a state she appears to have been in for a number of days. She was promptly taken to St. Mungo's, where all attempts to revive her have failed. Cause is yet unknown, and though Dark Magic has been suggested, no detrimental spells of any kind have been found on her person. Healers are pessimistic with regards to her odds of recovery and, as no family has come forth to care for her, she will remain at St. Mungo's indefinitely. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's only child, and heir to the Malfoy fortune, Draco Malfoy, has not been seen by anyone since schools have been let out for the summer. The Ministry of Magic has speculated that he may be dead, but cannot liquidate the Malfoy fortune until the required six months has passed without reason to believe that Draco Malfoy is still alive.  
  
The article sported red ink marks where Ron had scrawled, "HA! NO MORE DRACO MALFOY! FINALLY SOME GOOD NEWS!" Being in an emotional rut at the time, Harry had taken the information in stride, though now he was vaguely sickened both by the article's preoccupation with the Malfoy fortune and with Ron's continuing glee at the Malfoys' fate. He had not rejoiced over it too much since Harry's arrival, but according to Hermione he had celebrated the fact for days before both Molly's and Hermione's reproaches had gotten him to shut up.  
  
A slight movement in the corner of room caught Harry's eye. A thin hand was stubbing out a cigarette as its owner continued to face towards the window. All Harry could see of him (her?) was a graceful stance, a strong back, and straight black hair tucked behind barely visible ear-tips.  
  
"Who...?," Harry mouthed to himself. The question was not answered when the figure turned around, a familiar yet unrecognizable face making itself half- visible and a foreign black eye, framed by a scarred eyebrow, focused on... him. Harry wrenched himself away from the door and backed up, hoping to avoid a confrontation with young man inside the room.  
  
The door did open, though it was not thrown open in flurry of rage, as Harry had initially feared. The tall, thin figure stepped through without even looking at Harry, softly closing the door behind him. After a momentary pause – for effect? – he turned purposely towards Harry, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned both eyes to stare into his emerald greens.  
  
Harry felt distinctly strange, as though the air itself was charged; he sensed danger, but it was of an unpredictable sort, not like the kind he always felt when Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters were near. "Uh... sorry?," he offered lamely, if only to see what would happen. He fought off the desire to hold in his breath while waiting to witness the result of his words.  
  
It was an unexpected one. The head was thrown back, a loud maniacal laughter was ripped from red lips, thin arms slid down a lanky frame to hold a quaking stomach. The laughter was short-lived, and the youth suddenly went deathly still, frightening eyes glaring across the corridor at Harry. "I'll not accept your apology yet, Harry Potter. Recent developments have not yet outweighed horrors of the past."  
  
The youth bared his perfect teeth in a disturbing parody of a smile. Harry stood stunned as the stranger sharply turned away and walked off.  
  
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Please review. I promise a long-fic. And I think I've found a new angle – well, at least, I haven't read anything else along the lines of what I have planned. 


	2. The Encounter at the Platform

Acknowledgments: Harry Potter & Co. belong to JK Rowling, that lucky bitch. I want to be a super-rich author! I am, however, hoping that this is a relatively original story line.  
  
Ch. 2: The Encounter at Platform 9 and ¾  
  
Harry didn't say anything about what he had seen when he returned to Ron's room, though he could tell that his friends suspected something – he had been gone for quite a bit longer than usual. Mrs. Weasley had asked him if he was okay, concern as more obvious though no less real than that which was emanating from Hermione. Even Ron, who seemed naturally unconcerned with anything was giving him a slightly worried look.  
  
Harry just blushed, and mumbled something about peeking in on Neville's parents. Molly expressed her understanding, Hermione looked at him strangely, and Ron quickly changed the subject. "So, you guys going to come visit tomorrow?"  
  
Molly laughed and hugged her son. "I'm taking them to pick up school supplies tomorrow – yours too in fact. You'll just have to wait until the day after."  
  
*  
  
Harry and Hermione continued to visit Ron for the next couple of weeks. Each time, Harry returned to Narcissa Malfoy's room, but never caught a glimpse of the strange youth again. When he had inquired at the main desk about any visitors, the witch there had said that Mrs. Malfoy had not had any visitors at all – not since the reporters had tried to get pictures when she was initially brought in. Harry supposed it possible that he had imagined the whole thing, though he was not the type to indulge in that kind of self-doubt, depressed and apathetic or not.  
  
Harry, actually, was feeling a little better. Ever since the Malfoy incident, he felt his curiosity returning, if nothing else. Just having something to puzzle out was enough to inspire more interest in life that he had had for most of the summer. Furthermore, without Ron to side with him in favor of laziness, Harry frequently found himself following Hermione's lead – they spent countless hours studying, practicing, learning. It was fun, as magical learning tended to be very hands on, and Hermione even agreed to engage in mock duels (which she called 'practice') with him. Harry was proud to have it proven to him again what he already knew – Hermione was one of the smartest witches in Hogwarts, if not all of England.  
  
Eventually, though, summer came to an end. The combination of Weasley likeability and Weasley obnoxiousness had convinced Ron's mediwitch to release him in time to take the Hogwarts Express with his friends. Ron's face had split into a wide grin when he told his friends. "I never thought I'd be so thrilled to be going back to school!"  
  
Harry, on the other hand, was unsurprised at the absence of excitement he felt as he stood around on platform 9 and ¾; he just seemed to take most things in stride these days. School ends, school begins, someone dies, life goes on. Still, he was a little relieved too – he had come to the conclusion that all the solitude and relative absence of activity had been contributing to his depression. He had the usual foreboding with regards to returning to Hogwarts: something was going to happen. He both dreaded and anticipated it, but anything to escape the brain-rotting monotony of the summer. Harry was a man of action, and it was the only way for him to thrive.  
  
Ron, of course, made a total spectacle of himself from almost the moment he arrived. As soon as his mother had departed he yelled, "I'M OUT!!! I'M FREE! NO MORE ST. MUNGO'S FOR ME!!!"  
  
He paused for only a moment, apparently amazed by the fact that his words rhymed, after which he began jumping around and chanting. "I'm out! I'm free! No more hospital for me!"  
  
Harry watched with a mixture of indifference and mild distaste. Hermione was only able to take it for a few rounds before her annoyance became too much, and she grabbed Ginny by her collar and stalked off to talk to Luna and a couple of other Ravenclaw girls that were milling around. Seamus and Dean easily spotted their roommates.  
  
Without evening greeting him, Dean placed his hand firmly on Ron's shoulder. "Stop mate, you're not doing it right. Let me show you how it's supposed to be done..."  
  
Ron actually stopped, curiosity pushing him to be an audience for once. Dean adjusted his stance, gave a cool look around, then belted out something that mostly unheard of in the wizarding world... rap; freestyle rap at that.  
  
"Guess who's back? No longer outta wack, Finally outta the sack. It's the Ron-man, No longer the gone-man. Free from the Man, Freed from the Can!"  
  
Okay, so the lyrics were nothing special, but relatively impressive (and excellently delivered) for having been made up on the spot. Even Harry let himself smile a bit, and both Seamus and Ron let out loud whoops. A few scattered students clapped, before their attention was swallowed by the void. It took Seamus, Dean, and Ron a little longer to realize that the normal sounds and movements of the platform had stilled. Even Harry had been sufficiently distracted to require a moment to spin around and see on what so many other eyes were looking at.  
  
Draco Malfoy had just stepped through the wall in time to witness the end of Dean's performance. For someone who was supposed to be dead, he looked surprisingly alive – he was standing at least, very straight at that, and presumably breathing; the slow blinking of his eyes also revealed life. But he didn't look too far from someone who might have had to claw his way out of a grave. Most obviously, his pallid skin was smeared with dirt and grime, none of it looking very fresh; shoulder-length hair hung unwashed and unbrushed in thick mats on either side of his face; his shirt was that streaked-tan color that can only be achieved by the constant wear of something that was once white; his pants still looked their natural gray, but sported a number of stains and tears, and were being held up by what appeared to be a rope. And he looked incredibly, unhealthily thin.  
  
His brow was twisted into a deep scowl, and his lips were just moments away from a snarl. His eyes were narrowed, warily sizing up his audience, none of who know how to react – except Ron's big mouth of course. "Hey Malfoy. Everyone knows you want to be your father, but don't you think this corpse look is taking it a little far? "  
  
The spectators shifted from gape-at-the-freak mode to watch-the-show mode: The Ron and Malfoy Show was usually as entertaining as a wrestling match, if equally horrifying. Sure enough, the dirty Malfoy stalked up to Ron, his eyes burning dangerously. Harry moved a bit closer to his friend, anticipating trouble, while Hermione and Ginny quickly pushed their way through students for the same reason. But Malfoy stopped inches from Ron's face, completely ignoring the rest of the Gryffindors.  
  
"Ug," Ron gagged with genuine disgust. "You stink Malfoy."  
  
Finally, Malfoy's face showed some reaction – he bared his red teeth causing Ron's eyes to widen and finally begin to show some fear. Malfoy's mouth transformed itself into a malicious smirk, as he hocked up some spit, then spat out a large blob of saliva and blood onto the ground. His eyes returned to Ron's. "Don't fuck with me, Weasley. Don't talk to me, don't talk about me, don't even look at me. Let me be as dead to you as you are to me."  
  
Ron punched him.  
  
In retrospect, he was a little ashamed his behavior, as he was almost entirely at fault for the fight – throwing the first insult and the first punch at someone who was so clearly down. Still, Malfoy's appearance, his behavior, his words, they had all freaked him out. Ron hated the thrill of fear that Malfoy had been able to rise out of him in this state, something the prick had never been able to do before. Besides, the little shit proved more than capable of defending himself. Despite his emaciated and unhealthy appearance, Ron's punch had not phased him in the slightest; he immediately jumped on the taller redhead and had begun throwing blind punches and kicks, biting and scratching wildly, and screaming nonsense.  
  
It only took Harry and Seamus a few seconds to overcome their shock and come to their friend's rescue. They each grabbed a thin arm and hauled the blonde off Ron. Malfoy struggled frantically for a moment before wrenching himself away, while Ron lay on the ground in shock and disorientation, face already swelling from the beating.  
  
"Trouble?"  
  
The Gryffindors plus Malfoy turned: it was Blaise Zambini, flanked by Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Pansy Parkinson, all of whom were looking understandably militant. The Gryffindor's all looked back to Malfoy, thinking that his next words would determine whether or not there was about to be an all out brawl on Platform 9 and ¾.  
  
Malfoy looked back and forth between the two gangs warily, eyes calculating and unamused. An expression of determination hardened on his features. "No trouble!," he shouted, so that most of the students on the platform could hear him. "I don't want any trouble for any of you! I don't want anything from anyone..." His eyes turned towards his housemates, "And that does for you too! I don't need your protection, your friendship, anything! Get away from me! And YOU lot!" His swiveled back towards the Gryffindor crowd. "FUCK OFF! I don't want anything to do with you!"  
  
Most of the spectators, along with all of the Gryffindors, sported shocked expressions; the Slytherins, on the other hand, displayed mixed reactions. Crabbe and Goyle looked confused, and a little angry, Parkinson looked horrified and hurt, and Zambini looked exceedingly pissed off.  
  
"Is that the way it's going to be then, Malfoy?," Zambini sneered with emphasis, knowing just what buttons to push. "You might as well be dead then. Guess you really are nothing without your father."  
  
Malfoy howled with rage, like some unthinking creature, and flung himself on Zambini. Now it was the Gryffindor's turn to watch as the dirty skinny little beast tear at the cocky Slytherin. There was a flurry of limbs and incoherent cries of anger before Crabbe and Goyle managed to grab Malfoy's shoulders and throw him off Zambini. Zambini lay stunned, bleeding, and beaten, much like Ron had been just minutes before, but Malfoy quickly scrambled to his feet. He stood tensed and ready, fresh blood decorating his filthy skin and clothes. He eyed first the Slytherin pack, who bunched together in a defensive formation, then he eyed the Gryffindor pack, who also shifted closer together.  
  
Slowly, Malfoy backed towards the train. Hardly anyone moved, as if afraid to startle a dangerous animal. When he reached the train, he scurried up and disappeared. The Slytherins and Gryffidors were now left eyeing each other warily. Something very strange was going on, and it was obvious that neither side knew what.  
  
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Please review! You are my muses! No audience = no inspiration. Let me know that someone is reading! 


	3. The Explosive Journey

J K Rowling has too much money. She should pay me to ghost write for her – capture an older audience, har har.  
  
Warning: Slash eventually, but still working up to it.  
  
Ch. 3: The Explosive Journey  
  
The Gryffindors managed to board the train without any further incident, careful not to say anything about Malfoy until they had retired into a cabin away from the Slytherins. On one side Hermione sat between Ron and Luna, who had managed to appear relatively unnoticed; on the other side Harry sat between Neville and Dean. Seamus stood leaning against the door, unwilling to miss this conversation... though no one seemed to know what to say.  
  
Ron, ever one for stating the obvious, finally voiced what was on everyone's minds. "That was damn freaky."  
  
Everyone nodded, though Hermoine rolled her eyes. "Why'd you provoke him like that? He was obviously out of sorts."  
  
Ron frowned, the blustered defensively. "At first it was just for a laugh, he's always been such a arsehole. But then there was that blood on his teeth..." Ron shivered. "It was a reflex, I panicked. He's a fucking Death Eater for fuck's sake!"  
  
"Well, his initiation must've knocked a few screws loose to make him show up like that," Dean commented.  
  
"Maybe it was some kind of survival test," Neville suggested. "I had to do something like that once, and I was almost as dirty by the end. Though I didn't lose so much weight."  
  
"Why did everyone think he was dead?," Harry interrupted, assuming that he had missed some news from earlier in the summer.  
  
"That stuff tends to happen to Malfoys," Seamus blurted out, receiving a peeved look from Hermione for usurping her role as information source. "I read in the Daily Prophet that they're always getting assassinated and disappearing, usually by some distant relative who wants to get their hands on some of their fortune. It's all backstabbing and devious."  
  
"It's true," Hermione added, determined to add her two cents. "I read the same article. Malfoy – our Malfoy – even had an older brother who supposedly disappeared. His body was found four years later by none other than his younger brother. Lucius Malfoy also had an older sister that disappeared, though her body was never found."  
  
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. The whole family is rotten," Ron said with distaste.  
  
Luna was about to comment, but a loud commotion distracted everyone. Seamus opened the door and peeked out. "Oh Merlin, he's at it again!"  
  
Everyone tried to cram through the door at once, to get a better view, but only Seamus, Ron, and Harry managed to get into the corridor before there was no room for the others to follow (most of the other cabins also had also sent out delegates to see what was going on). Sure enough, further down the train Malfoy could be seen brawling with two seventh year Hufflepuffs. All three were on the ground, struggling and yelling obscenities. Ron's mouth actually fell open. "How in the name of Mordred do you get into a fight with Hufflepuffs?"  
  
However it was managed, no one was breaking it up, at least not until it actually looked like Malfoy might win – the other two, despite significantly greater bulk were beginning to show signs of retreat: they were trying to protect their faces and bodies from Malfoy's wild movements, while Malfoy acted as though he didn't feel their punches at all. A Hufflepuff prefect finally came forward, wand pointed towards Malfoy, and muttered a spell that hurled him down the corridor a good five meters, almost at Harry's feet. Still, Malfoy managed to be standing again almost instantly, glaring down the corridor to where a number of Hufflepuffs now sported wands. He tucked his matted hair behind his ears and carefully shifted so as to have the Gryffindors in his line of sight.  
  
Harry would have thought it almost impossible when he had first spotted Malfoy on the Platform, but now he looked even worse. He noticed several splotches of red, swollen skin – in fact, half of his face looked particularly beaten, especially combined with a thick, straight scar sliced through one blond eyebrow. There was also a lot more blood than there was before – in his hair, on his shirt, smeared from a busted lip. He was clutching his stomach in apparent pain, but his eyes flickered dangerously. Harry couldn't believe this guy: surely he didn't want another fight?  
  
"Hey Malfoy," Ron started, already pinching his nose to assist his next comment about the blonde's stink. Harry interrupted, though he could not deny that Malfoy smelled decidedly unclean. "Shut up, Ron."  
  
Malfoy was now glaring at them with some nervousness and increasing (was it possible?) anger, and Harry restrained an impulse to slap or shake some sense into the prick. "Damn it, Malfoy. Pull yourself together! Get a grip!"  
  
For a tense moment Malfoy looked like he was going to explode and attack Harry too; but then he suddenly deflated with sigh, his scowl fading into a edgy frown. He simply averted his eyes and nodded, then shuffled over to lean his aching body against the side of the corridor opposite the Gryffindor's cabin. Most of the other students reentered their cabins now that there was nothing left to see, but the Gryffindors carefully watched Malfoy. One hand still clutching his side, he used the other to fumble in his pocket. Ron and Seamus gripped their wands tighter, but Harry gestured towards them to wait.  
  
Dirty, shaking hands retrieved a rumbled pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and then, with noticeable difficulty, managed to light one. Only then did Malfoy's face and eyes tilt back up to look at Harry. His expression was closed and unreadable.  
  
For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened. Malfoy continued to smoke, and the Gryffindor's watched him uncomfortably. Finally, Harry grew bored of the scene, and he turned to his friends with a sigh. "Lets go back in and sit down. The show's over."  
  
A flicker of something unrecognizable appeared on Malfoy's face, but it was gone almost instantly. By the time everyone had settled back into their cabin, Malfoy had turned around and was now smoking out the window. Ron pushed back the door curtains and continued to stare at his enemy through the clear door. "Why is he still standing there?," he asked irritably.  
  
Harry shrugged. "Maybe he's just standing where he fell."  
  
"Damn but Malfoy can fight!," Dean said excitedly. "I can't believe he managed to kick both their asses! He's so skinny!"  
  
"You don't have to sound so admiring," Hermione snapped irritably.  
  
And so the journey to Hogwarts continued, with everyone (and Ron in particular) taking frequent peaks at the Slytherin outside. Malfoy stood by the window for the rest of the trip, variously smoking or leaning his head on arms on the window sill. Ron and Hermione left towards the end to confer with the other prefects about "prefect business", but Hermione made sure Ron did not disturb the blonde – though he had a good laugh when he got back to the cabin. "He's sleeping! Standing up and sleeping with his head out the window!"  
  
Ron, Seamus, and Dean found this particularly funny and laughed loudly. Neville just looked embarrassed (he had once done something similar), while Harry had moved to the far end of the cabin and was just staring out the window at the passing scenery. Hermione began reading, and the other boys eventually turned to the ever popular subject of Quidditch.  
  
*  
  
Mafloy was the only student who hadn't changed into his school robes by the time the Hogwarts Express slowed to a stop. He did, however, jerk awake and dash off the train while everyone else was struggling with their trunks.  
  
"Malfoy!," a voice easily identifiable as Hagrid's boomed. "Watcha doin' here? I thought ya was dead!"  
  
Harry and several other students (still waiting to disembark) stuck their heads out the window to watch the exchange. Malfoy appeared to be warily backing away from the giant man, as though he knew this was one fight he couldn't win. Still, it didn't stop him from snapping angry and edgy words. "Malfoy IS dead! So everyone can just stop fussing!"  
  
Then he swiveled around quickly and bounded into the nearest carriage, though not without giving the threshals a good eying.  
  
Jeez, he's about as paranoid as Moody, Harry thought.  
  
"What a nutter," Ron voiced, and though Harry didn't respond, he couldn't help but agree.  
  
Ron, Hermione, and Harry finally managed to find their own carriage, which they shared with Luna and Neville – Seamus and Dean had preferred to mack on girls, and so had sat with Lavender and the Patil twins. They were just getting settled when Hermione craned her neck out the window. "Uh oh."  
  
"What?," Ron asked eagerly, attempting (and failing) to lean over her and look himself. Harry just watched her expectantly. With the constant spectacle of himself that Malfoy was making, it was surely only a matter of time before all of the pieces of the puzzle came together.  
  
"I just saw Crabbe, Goyle, Zambini, Bulstrode, and Parkinson get into Malfoy's carriage," Hermoine elaborated. There was silence as they all waited to hear the expected sounds of conflict, but none came.  
  
"Maybe they hexed him," Neville suggested timidly.  
  
"Maybe he killed them," Ron countered.  
  
"Maybe they just don't have anything to say to each other," Luna speculated. Everyone looked at her strangely, be she seemed to barely notice.  
  
There was a strange silence that lasted the rest of the journey. When Hogwarts was reached, everyone piled out again, relieved to have finally arrived. Neville sighed happily.  
  
"Ug. There's Snape, looking greasy as ever," Ron pointed out, continuing his running commentary of anti-Slytherin opinions. Sure enough Snape was standing next to McGonagall, looking particularly ill tempered. More and more students, however, were looking at the last carriage, from which anyone had yet to emerge. Snape noticed and began his approach.  
  
"I think the intermission's almost over," Hermione whispered.  
  
And sure enough, with a loud BANG the carriage suddenly flew apart, sending wood and bodies flying in all directions, and Snape was knocked to the ground. The carriage's threshals panicked and flew off, Hagrid running after them.  
  
Malfoy was, of course, the first to recover from this latest incident and was quickly back on his feet and attempting to run (though he was limping badly) towards the castle.  
  
"MR. MALFOY! What is going on here?!," Professor McGonagall demanded, blocking his path. For a moment Malfoy looked hysterical enough to actually attack her, but apparently he still had the presence of mind to recognize just how self-defeating that would be. He tried to compose himself and replied bitterly, "I know I'm hated, but does everyone really have to be sound so displeased that I'm not a corpse?"  
  
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I'm sorry that my chapters are so short. I'll try to compensate by posting more frequently. Chapter 4 is already in the works. Please review! 


	4. A Little Bit of Answer

Clause of ass-covering: JK Rowling still owns more souls than the devil.  
  
Ch. 4: A Little Bit of Answer Mixed with Some Hard Questions  
  
Professor McGonagall had the grace to look a little embarrassed, but quickly recovered. "Don't be silly, of course I'm thrilled that you're alive. I wouldn't be happy if any of my students met untimely deaths."  
  
"Not even if they were Death Eaters?," Malfoy asked maliciously – and loudly. There was a collective gasp from the students avidly watching the scene unfold.  
  
"I knew it!," Ron whispered triumphantly. Harry's eyes narrowed and he felt anger swell in him, partially directed at himself for always having been willing to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt.  
  
"MR. MALFOY!" Snape was now on his feet and pushing through the crowd to where McGonagall and Malfoy stood. "I hardly think this is the place to have this conversation!"  
  
He tried to grab Malfoy's arm, presumably to lead him into the castle, but it had the opposite effect. Malfoy ripped away from him as though he had been burned and glared at Snape with unadulterated hate. "I'm not going anywhere with you," his voice dripped and faltered with the depth of feeling behind it. "I'd rather die. Again."  
  
"Mr. Malfoy! Twenty points from Slytherin!," Professor McGonagall exclaimed, looking far more scandalized than Snape. Malfoy was briefly surprised by her words, as though they were unexpected, then smirked nastily. He threw a dirty and completely obvious look at the group of angry looking Slytherins who had only just managed to pick themselves up and dust themselves off. The grin faded instantly when he turned back to the professors.  
  
He lowered his voice so that only McGonagall and Snape could hear, though he was only talking to the former. "I don't care. Take away as many points as you want. Just don't leave me alone with him. He's a Death Eater, I've seen him, and he will kill me if he gets the chance."  
  
Snape's face took on a calculating look, while McGonagall's eyebrows arched in surprise. Still, McGonagall hadn't survived so long as a professor without learning how to deal with students, however out of sorts. "Just calm down. I will escort you to the Headmaster's office. Professor Snape, are you capable of supervising the moving in on your own?"  
  
Snape's eyes narrowed at the slight dig, but he let it pass, as he was genuinely concerned for his star student (who was currently glaring at him with an intensity even he could not compete with). "I surely am," he said with sarcasm before turning to glare at the students – most of whom hadn't really progressed much beyond gaping at Malfoy's interaction with the professors.  
  
Malfoy and McGonagall quickly left the premises, but not fast enough to miss the beginning of Snape's tirade. "What are you all gawking at like a bunch of halfwits? Anyone who has not managed to haul their belongings inside within the next five minutes will be losing fifty points from their house!"  
  
Malfoy's absence from the Feast was highly noted, though unsurprising. His unexpected return, as well as the manner of the return, was by far the most common conversation topic in the Great Hall, followed distantly by stories of summer activities and the War. Harry and Hermione were both getting rather fed up with talking about Malfoy, and especially with Ron's ongoing diatribe against him (even though it was somewhat amusing), and instead tried to conceive of what implications this 'new' Malfoy (if he could even be called that) might have for the War. A crazy Death Eater was surely not a good thing.  
  
In the headmaster's office they embarked on a somewhat related conversation. Malfoy glared alternately at Dumbledore and McGonagall, though it was more a look of general anger and hostility than a targeted one. After patiently enduring Malfoy's tense silence for a couple of minutes, Dumbledore began.  
  
"Can I offer you some tea? A lemon drop perhaps?"  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed in annoyance and slight offense. Surely the headmaster had more important questions? Still, he realized that a lot hinged on this conversation, and he was determined to keep himself in check.  
  
"Very well. I suppose the first question I should ask is, where have you been for the last two months? It has obviously not escaped your attention that the wizarding word thinks you dead."  
  
Malfoy snorted in a very untypical manner. "I was in hiding," he clipped.  
  
One bushy eyebrow arched, though it hardly revealed any surprise. Smug bastard. "Is that so? May I ask why, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"Don't call me that. Mr. Malfoy is dead. That's why I had to go into hiding," Malfoy ground out, with obvious effort to check his rage.  
  
"What do you think you need to hide from?," Dumbledore asked calmly.  
  
Malfoy sneered in distaste. "Don't play stupid with me. Now that Lucius is dead, I'm probably higher on his list of people to kill than Harry fucking Potter. I can't even begin to describe how pissed he will be that his favorite rising star has gone AWOL – not to mention the huge security risk."  
  
Dumbledore's eyebrow inched up again, and Malfoy felt another wave of dislike seize him. "Can I assume then that this is why you have chosen to come out of hiding? You hope to find a sanctuary here?"  
  
Malfoy hated that he had to confess his weakness. "Yes," he whispered bitterly. "That, and I..." He paused while he grasped for the words that wouldn't reveal too much. "I don't think I could stand living like... that ... anymore. "  
  
"Understandable," the headmaster replied. "I'll have Professor Snape-"  
  
"No!," Malfoy couldn't restrain himself anymore (he had been doing a remarkable job so far) and he jumped to his feet. "How stupid do you think I am? Just kick me out if you don't want me here! Snape will kill me or take me to Voldemort, and you know it! I know you know what he is! In fact, I refuse to stay in Slytherin, I'm not safe-"  
  
"Mr. Malfoy." Malfoy was really beginning to work himself up, pacing erratically, and hearing his name only aggravated him further. Dumbledore and McGonagall watched him continue with dawning awareness of the situation – Malfoy almost seemed to be talking more to himself than anyone else.  
  
"This was a mistake, I shouldn't have come. I'm not safe here. I should go back to the woods... No, madness lies down that road, I can't go back. Not by myself. Alone I am nothing." Malfoy gasped. "I am nothing! Oh fuckfuckfuck- "  
  
"Mr. Malfoy!"  
  
Malfoy whipped to attention and glowered fiercely at the old man. "I SAID DON'T CALL ME THAT! Malfoy is dead! Dead, dead, dead! I am just a vessel!"  
  
"Fine, Draco-"  
  
"Don't call me that either! Draco's been dead even longer than Malfoy!" Malfoy was gripping his head, his eyes shut tightly, in a futile attempt to still the emotions and confusion that was spinning wildly and loudly through him. He stumbled back and fell into a chair, upon which he promptly lowered his head between his legs and began breath heavily. McGonagall watched the disheveled boy with a slightly horrified expression, while even Dumbledore looked concerned.  
  
"He's gone mad!," she whispered urgently.  
  
Dumbledore's frown deepened. "Perhaps."  
  
"Don't talk like I'm not here!" Malfoy's head jerked up and his irises flashed black; for a moment he seemed even more insane, but then it was abruptly gone, and he just looked exhausted. "But you're right. I'm out of sorts. But you can't send me to St. Mungo's, I'll certainly be found and killed there! Just... just give me a bit of time to pull myself together in safety, then I'll leave. I swear. You can even lock me away from the students, I don't care. Maybe that would be for the best..."  
  
Dumbledore interrupted before Malfoy could start rambling again, beginning to get a relatively good impression of Malfoy's state, if not how he had gotten that way. He did, however, have to make a conscious effort not to address Malfoy by his name. "Don't be silly, young man. You are, of course, welcome here – in case you have been unaware, Hogwarts has become a sanctuary to quite a few students. However, you will have to attend classes and sleep in the dormitories like everyone else."  
  
"But I-," Malfoy attempted doubtfully.  
  
"Will learn to get along. Now, you are obviously tired and distressed. I think you should get cleaned up, have something to eat, then go to sleep. Tomorrow I want you to visit Mme Pomfrey, then Mme Pince to pick up the necessary books. Is there anything else you need?"  
  
Malfoy was simultaneously shocked and relieved, and looked so. It took him a moment to think clearly enough to answer the question. "A wand," he croaked.  
  
McGonagall's thin eyebrows rose in surprise, "How did you-"  
  
"I don't know," Malfoy pre-empted, the edginess quickly returning.  
  
"Do you know at least how you lost it?," Dumbledore asked gently.  
  
Malfoy shook his head, then began rubbing his dirty temples. The headache that had been his constant companion for months was really beginning to act up, and he really didn't know how much longer he would be able to continue this conversation – something that the old headmaster seemed to realize. "Well then, I'll let you go now. We'll sort something out regarding your wand."  
  
Malfoy quickly stood and made for the door, but was stopped again by the intentional use of his name.  
  
"Oh, and Draco..." Malfoy turned around, an exceedingly strained and pained expression on his face.  
  
"This conversation is not over."  
  
As soon as the door closed behind him, Malfoy felt as though he was going to pass out. He felt like he had been running on empty for ages, and the exhaustion was suddenly overwhelming. He only got a few steps before another debilitation made itself known – a sickening agony was felt in his shrunken stomach. Using the wall as the support, he slowly made his way to the dungeons, grateful that the rest of the students were all still at the Feast, giving him the time and berth he needed to accommodate his weakness.  
  
He made it all the way to the dungeons, almost through the Slytherin dorms, before encountering anyone. When he finally did, they just eyed each other for a long moment.  
  
Malfoy felt defeated – his body was failing him, and he had made it to Hogwarts only to be killed on his first day back. He laughed bitterly, brokenly, and spoke hoarsely. "Go ahead. Kill me."  
  
Snape shook his head thoughtfully. "I'm not going to kill you, Draco. Especially not under Dumbledore's nose. Besides, you seem to be doing a pretty good job of that yourself."  
  
"That's right!," Malfoy shouted with nonexistent energy. "I don't need your help! Go tell that to fucking Voldemort! Let me be in peace!"  
  
Snape flinched slightly at the use of You-Know-Who's name, but his voice was almost gentle. "What happened to you?"  
  
"Ha! He didn't tell you?," Malfoy sneered hatefully. Snape just shook his head. Malfoy laughed maliciously before continuing almost conversationally. "Of course, you're only a minion. My father thought you a pathetic excuse for a human being, you know, and he degraded you and made jokes at your expense constantly. About how Narcissa chose him over you, how your feelings for her were pitiable and laughable. But... I... always thought you quite shrewd, much more so than you let on. So lets see if you can solve the riddle, Death Eater scum. You knew Narcissa when she was younger – what do think happened to her?"  
  
Snape's puzzled look was the last thing Malfoy saw before he hunger and fatigue overcame him and he slumped against the wall, before falling to the floor.  
  
When Malfoy woke up thirty three hours later, he was in the Infirmary. He had been cleaned up, and the debilitating hunger had somehow been sated. His mind felt fuzzy, and his body warm – the best he had felt in months, and he allowed himself to doze a little longer.  
  
He was woken again a couple of hours later by the unmistakable sound of brisk footsteps, which stopped at the foot of his bed. Malfoy's eyes fluttered open to see Snape's unreadable face. "Let me guess, you need me in good health so that Voldemort can do what he wants with me when he gets me back?"  
  
A flicker of grief passed across Snape's face, then was gone. He shook his head slowly, deliberately. "You will never understand how painful my feelings for your mother have been for me over the years, though I have not loved her for a long time. But I think I have figured out what you were hinting at. It would explain a lot."  
  
Malfoy nodded, trying to shake away the morning fuzziness. "Another point for the Death Eaters. You are smarted than Lucius ever gave you credit for."  
  
Snape looked down at Malfoy for a long moment before coming to a decision, then he pulled up a chair and sat in it. "I think we need to have a talk."  
  
Please review! I know some of Draco's behavior seems OOC, but I promise that there are reasons, though you will have to stick with the story to find out what they are. I don't believe in give readers the answers – you will either have to figure them out on your own (there are hints!) or will have to wait until I reveal them in my own good time! That said, please show some love, give me some sugar, and write a review! I hope you guys are as excited as I am about this story! 


	5. The Return to Nothing

Reviewers: Thanx to all who bothered to review. You are the reason I bother to write fanfiction at all. If I was just in it for the mental masturbation, I wouldn't bother to post and probably wouldn't write fanfiction.  
  
Copyright clause: I own nothing. I make no money. I have no job. I suck. Very soon I will be forced to pawn my computer and be out on the street begging. Yes, I'm biter.  
  
Ch. 5: The Return to Nothing  
  
An understanding was reached between Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, both hinting at the truth but only partially willing to commit to the danger such truths entail. Severus had hinted at his true loyalties – it was a huge risk for both his person and for the Order of the Phoenix, but Draco's trust was one of the only causes he considered worth the risk. For he had loved Narcissa once, and ultimately had been powerless to save her (indeed, had been too self-absorbed to even realize she needed saving), and Lucius had – out of spite – named him Draco's godfather. Severus had not felt close to Lucius' son for years, not since before Draco's arrival at Hogwarts, and now he cursed himself for being so blind to the boy's victimization, as unobvious at it was.  
  
Malfoy took a gamble and trusted Snape to take him to Diagon Alley to buy a new wand; he operated under the assumption that, even if Snape was actually a Death Eater, he wouldn't do anything to him right under Dumbledore's nose. The expedition was characterized by continuous paranoia and almost- fights on Malfoy's part, and intense aggravation on Snape's. It soon became clear that Malfoy did not want to talk about his how he was, what had happened, or anything of a remotely personal nature, and he most certainly did not want help dealing.  
  
Ollivander's Wand Shop looked the same as always, though Ollivander eyed the pair strangely – no doubt recognizing the Malfoy heir.  
  
"What can I do for you gentlemen?," he asked unflappably.  
  
"This young man needs a wand," Snape replied briskly. Better judgment had shut Malfoy up during the course of their shopping expedition after he nearly managed to start a brawl with a couple of mildly offensive Gringotts goblins.  
  
Ollivander's eyes narrowed. "I sold Mr. Malfoy a wand just five years ago. What happened to that one?"  
  
Malfoy's head snapped up and he glared hatefully at Ollivander. He looked much improved – the grime and smell had been washed from his body and hair, and his injuries had been healed by Mme Pomfrey – but he did not look much like his old self. His uncharacteristically wrinkled Slytherin robes did little to hide his thin frame, his hair hung messily to his shoulders, and a diagonal scar still split one of his eyebrows. Most changed, however, was the almost permanently tense and fierce look in his eyes and face.  
  
He bared his teeth maliciously at the old man. "It blew up when I tried to use it."  
  
Surprise and unease showed briefly in Ollivander's expression, but no more questions were asked. He turned to dig through some wand boxes, before triumphantly brandishing one.  
  
"I imagine your old wand did that because your magic has shifted, however unlikely that might sound. There are some rare instances of that happening. Here, try this one."  
  
Malfoy warily gripped the short and stubby wand. "Lumos!"  
  
A painfully bright light flickered oncce then died with a fffft sound. Malfoy looked angry and disappointed. When he tried again, nothing happened.  
  
Ollivander snatched the wand back, looking at it worriedly. "That wasn't supposed to happen...," he mumbled to himself as he began searching again.  
  
The next try was even less successful. Malfoy's Lumos was followed by nothing but a fffft. It was Mafloy's turn to look worried (was he so fucked up that he could no longer wield a wand?), while Ollivander looked stumped, turning to scan the rows of wand boxes.  
  
"Hmmm....maybe...," he said thoughtfully, doubtfully. He climbed up his ladder to the very top row, then pulled out several boxes to retrieve a decrepit box from behind them. "Here, try this."  
  
Malfoy picked up the wand cautiously – it was a healthy seven inches, but was heavier, darker, more crooked, more knotted, and generally more ominous than any he had ever seen. Actually, he kind of liked it.  
  
"Lumos!"  
  
Malfoy was thrown back a couple of meters as an explosive blast of light and energy erupted from the wand, knocking Snape on his ass and Ollivander into his shelves.  
  
"Merlin be damned!," Snape growled angrily as he got to his feet and smoothed his robes.  
  
"Fuck!," Malfoy cried in admiration, before turning to Ollivander. "What's in this little fucker?"  
  
Ollivander smiled mysteriously. "A feather belonging to the last Dragon Phoenix this world ever saw. That wand has seen many masters, but has been compatible with none for centuries."  
  
"What's a Dragon Phoenix?," Malfoy asked suspiciously, though without hostility for once.  
  
"They were small dragons that would self-combust and reform like Phoenixes," Snape answered distractedly. "They've been extinct for at least five hundred years..."  
  
"This is it," Malfoy stated firmly, feeling sure of something for the first time in months. The surety was comforting.  
  
"That explosion would seem to suggest a difference in opinion," Snape replied snarkily, smoothing his ruffled hair.  
  
"No!" Hostility returned with a vengeance.  
  
It was Ollivander that pre-empted another incident. "Actually, I think Mr. Malfoy is right. The wand exploded, true, but I think that was because Mr. Malfoy's magic is out of sync with his control of it. The others would have exploded too, had his magic not shorted them out. If this one can handle his magic, then it must be compatible."  
  
Snape looked annoyed for having been contradicted and Malfoy grinned wickedly. He felt safer now that he had a wand, however incapably he wielded it.  
  
Meanwhile...  
  
On Monday morning, while Malfoy was sleeping in the infirmary, the rest of the school was treated to the Prophet's headline: MALFOY HEIR NOT DEAD!  
  
The article that followed would surely have set Malfoy off again had he read it. Written by the infamous Rita Skeeter, it detailed the Malfoy family's not entirely factual immersion in the Dark Arts, accusing Draco in particular. It went so far to insinuate that the younger Malfoy had masterminded the death of his father, and that Dumbledore was in league with Voldemort, as proven by the headmaster's housing of the criminal. It failed to mention that Draco Malfoy had not, in fact, been formally accused of any crime, while bitterly ending with "The Ministry will be unfreezing all the Malfoy family assets."  
  
Rumors, however, were not helped by Malfoy's absence, though the opportunity was taken by the Gryffindor trio to talk about something else.  
  
On the first Wednesday of school, Malfoy returned to the general population. It was, as to be expected, quite an entrance: he strode in to breakfast a little late, paused near the professors' table to simultaneously glare and scan the four rows of students. The hall fell silent, and Harry was a little disappointed that Malfoy's eyes did not linger any longer on his group than on any of the other students.  
  
Malfoy briskly moved to sit at the Slytherin table – between two fifth years that he barely seemed to notice – and promptly began to heap food on his plate in an entirely undignified and entirely unselfconscious manner.  
  
The other Houses watched in anticipation as Zabini leaned over and hissed something unheard at Malfoy. The blond tensed and raised his head to glare at the dark haired Slytherin, but his reaction was anti-climactic, and nothing happened. In fact, Malfoy managed to ignore the following string of insults and jostles, and the Hall's attention quickly migrated elsewhere.  
  
Harry, however, was particularly preoccupied by Malfoy. He had not failed to notice that every academic year held new surprises, new adventures, and new dangers. If something anomalous – namely Malfoy's strange behavior – then he could not help but suspect that it had something to do with how the year's events were going to unfold. Curiosity aside, self preservation demanded that he consider how Malfoy might fit into the bigger picture. Hermione seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, and so both of their eyes were trained on the anomaly as he stood – only to be tripped. He stumbled but didn't fall, then whipped around, the expression on his face making it very clear that he was done being patient. A swift stride had his thin frame towering over Zabini, who had the decency and wisdom to look a little concerned before he was grabbed by his collar and jerked forward. He staggered out of his seat before being on the receiving end of a punch with the momentum and power of a stampeding Hippogriff, which propelled the Italian boy backwards to land on the Slytherin table.  
  
If the punch had seemed to take place in slow motion, what followed seemed as if everything had suddenly sped up – the Slytherin table was in sudden pandemonium as food, insults, and curses were suddenly being thrown. Physical violence erupted everywhere, some of it directed at Malfoy, but most of it not. From the point of view of the other Houses, it looked as if chaos had broken out and it was impossible to see the logic in who was fighting whom, except that each group of combatants seemed to be roughly paired by age, with the first and second years only watching in horror. A burly seventh year Bultrode were duking it out (it was of little surprise to any Slytherin that "pit bull" Bultrode appeared to be winning); Nott and Parkinson were trying to stare each other down at the ends of each other's wands; Goyle and Crabbe were smashing meatloaf into two other sixth years' faces; Malfoy was still pummeling Zabini where he lay on the table, while some seventh year kept trying to pull him off; and on and on...  
  
The professors all looked shocked and horrified, except Snape, who immediately moved to take action: he was very aware of the precarious peace that until now had prevailed in his House, and of the lethal levels to which any violence would quickly escalate. It was a very delicate balance that had to be struck between those who were the children of Death Eaters (though what this meant was not always clear), those whose ambition directed them towards Voldemort, and those had to negotiate their ways in amidst the other groups. It was delicate balance primarily maintained by atmosphere of truce that came with being the despised targets of the other three Houses, a balance that was even now breaking down before everyone's eyes.  
  
Using a quick magnifying spell, Snapes voice suddenly bellowed deafeningly though the Hall. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!"  
  
He was strode down the Hall glaring dangerously and his robes billowing impressively. "200 POINTS FROM SLYTHERIN! DENTENTION FOR ALL OF YOU! HOW DARE YOU SHOW SUCH A LACK OF SELF CONTROL! WHAT WOULD YOUR PARENTS SAY?! Well, we'll all find out when I send them owls informing them of your utterly reprehensible behavior! Every single one of you, NOW! DOWN TO THE DUNGEONS! I think its time we revisit the elementary lesson of appropriate school behavior!"  
  
The Slytherins were mess, some covered in food, others in blood, a few having been hexed, almost all disheveled. They wore various expressions of guilt, horror, and anger – none could believe what they had done. Except Malfoy, of course, who looked like wanted nothing more than to continue fighting.  
  
Snape released a sigh that no one heard or saw: he was going to have to punish Malfoy, however much he understood that Malfoy's behavior was a product of what had happened to him – his open aggression was threatening to provide that spark that turned the simmering oil of Slytherin hostility into a fiery rage of violence.  
  
Snape's detention was not the only one Malfoy received on his first day back. By the time Sixth Year Transfiguration came around that afternoon – the first class Malfoy would have with the Gryffidor trio (as Snape had forced all the Slytherins to miss their first class, in which Malfoy should have had Charms) – he had already wracked up three more detentions.  
  
So... what do you think? Did you notice that it took me a while to post? That's because I was discouraged from your lack of reviews!!! Please review, or I may just stop writing from lack of motivation (which I don't want to happen, but if anyone has read 'The Fine Line...' then you know that this is a very real possibility!) So... please review. Even if its just a few words.  
  
"one good deed dying tongueless  
  
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.  
  
Our praises are our wages:"  
  
- Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale (I.ii.) 


	6. Failures and Victories

Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
Reviewers: Thanks so much! Sorry it has taken so long to write this, but I have been going through a hectic time. It is extra long to make it up to you. Unfortunately, it is also rather. . . convoluted. I hereby confess that I was doing a fair amount of drugs while writing this, and am not sure what to make of it. I have read it again, fixed problems, so: if a section is hard to understand, reread it carefully, because it makes a twisted sense. Thanks for your patience and hope you enjoy,  
  
Ch. 6: Failures and Victories  
  
Malfoy stormed into Transfiguration with the rest of the students, pushing through to claim the seat in the far back corner of the room, in violation of his traditional center middle position. He scowled a lot, and spent most of the lesson fidgeting and not paying attention, almost as if in a glaring trance. The inevitable scene took place about twenty minutes before the end of class, when the students were all attempting to turn their twigs into a medicinal herb. While Hermione managed with some ease, she conceded to Harry's failure that it was a very precise and tricky transformation. Malfoy wasn't even trying, and Professor McGonagall eventually came by.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy? I want to see you perform the transformation for us." Aloof as always.  
  
Malfoy leaned away from her disdainfully, anger flaring. "No."  
  
"I have been told that you have already received three detentions today, and it's only the first day of school. Do you really want another one?" Harry had to give it to his head of house, she had just the right level of unflappable passive-aggressiveness to absolutely devastate.  
  
Malfoy, if it was even possible, glared that much more hatefully at McGonagall. He was close to losing control, though he knew he mustn't; and he knew that he couldn't handle another detention. Things were going badly enough. "No," he ground out.  
  
"Good. Then lets see what you got." Cool as a cucumber.  
  
"But, there's a problem!," he snarled defensively.  
  
"Then lets see what it is." A little impatience present in her voice this time.  
  
Malfoy despised that woman. She'd heard about his detention, but had she not heard about his disaster in Trewlany's class when he had tried to cast a simple spell? Was she trying to intentionally humiliate him?  
  
He stood briskly, reluctantly conceding that he didn't want to be in close quarters when he tried this. He motioned his wrist perfectly, the words pouring off his lips, and... BANG! The noise startled a cry from Neville, and the flash was of no pleasure to anyone. It was hard to say what had happened to the twigs. They had, it appeared, actually been turned into herb but then had burst into odorous smoking flames.  
  
McGonagall looked horrified; Malfoy took an exaggerated sniff then smirked evilly. It was the most pleasant expression he had exhibited in quite some time. "That's the problem, Professor. Bright light, explosion, fire, you get the picture."  
  
A couple of the nearby students giggled, and McGonagall sprung to action muttering a spell several times in an attempt to clear the air of the intoxicating smoke fumes. Finally, she turned to Malfoy, looking vaguely discontent. "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You may watch instead. But it would be wise of you to pay attention despite your. . . problem."  
  
Malfoy didn't say anything, just sat down and trained his eyes on his desk. The class went back to their attempts, a few of the students with a newly found motivation. Hermione was inspecting her herbs suspiciously as Ron made waved his around in frustration.  
  
"What are you frowning at?," Ron asked quietly, giving up on his wand waving.  
  
"It doesn't smell like marijuana unless it's smoking," she mused troublingly. "Ingenious, but disturbing.".  
  
Ron took a closer look at her herbs, not knowing what to think.  
  
And for a while, this was how things were. The few class attempts Malfoy tried at spell casting each resulted in mini explosions. He was in double detention almost every night, almost always because of having engaged in some physical altercation with another student. The teachers were lenient however, because Snape and possibly "all-seeing" Dumbledore realized that there were extenuating circumstances; furthermore, a lot of the fights were clearly provoked. It had been obvious immediately not only that Malfoy could be easily provoked, but that he was not protected by the crafty Slytherins anymore. And with his father dead, anyone with a grudge (of which there were many) now had their opportunity to take a shot at him. Righteous vindictiveness turned a surprising number of students into bullies. And Malfoy always let himself be provoked.  
  
He showed up to breakfast with the same angry scowl and new bruises, scrapes, black eye. He was being bullied, true, but he was not being docile about it. The Gryffindor Trio kept their distance and watched with mild interest. Towards the end of two weeks, there was some sign of slacking off and he was being left alone more. He had not proven as easy a prey as initially assumed. The true shift, however, took place on a Saturday, the third weekend at Hogwarts. Quidditich season hadn't started yet, but practices had and there was a mock game scheduled between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It may not have had much official value, but both houses felt that there were high stakes. Snape was relieved to see his house exhibiting loyalty for the good of all. As for the Gryffindors, well, they were just proud, with all the good and bad that entails, and with some right. And Slytherin, of course, was there symbolic enemy.  
  
Malfoy was the captain of the Slytherin team, bizarrely enough – and it was bizarre. He was supposed to have been Head Boy, before he had disappeared and supposedly died, before he had returned in the state that he was in. He had already also been elected Quidditch captain previously, but the Slytherins had generously decided to give him a try, possibly for the best of everyone. And Malfoy was able to pull it off, despite his disposition. He was damn good at Quidditch, excellent at strategy and an exceptional seeker. It was inevitable that he was hard on himself; it wasn't easy having Harry Potter as rival.  
  
Some things were still the same. Malfoy genuinely loved Quidditch and so ultimately incapable of giving up. His team was willing to listen to him, because they were able to recognize that he had the potential to orchestrate a Slytherin victory over Gryffindor. They had been practicing some... novel techniques during the handful of practices that had been held. The moves were both thought provoking in considering how they could be used, and also a little disturbing in their unfamiliarity. These moves were harder, and more dangerous, but they too showed potential. And Slytherins had no qualms about change when it came to winning.  
  
So out the two teams marched, the Gryffindors looking like heroes and the Slytherins as tough as steal. The stands were packed, as the entire school was there to watch the showdown. When both teams stopped in the field, Malfoy turned to his team and hollered over the cheers, "Just because the opponent might be stronger, doesn't mean you can't still win! If you want it enough, nothing is beyond your reach! The question is, do you want it enough?"  
  
It felt good to feel like a house again, to be happy to be a Slytherin. "YES, WE WANT IT!," they thundered, not just the team, but the Slytherins in the audience too.  
  
Malfoy's expression was absolute rock, a fierce drive beyond determination. No one has ever been able to wear an expression quite like Malfoy, but his team seemed eerily determined too.  
  
The game begun, and it took everyone a moment to notice that there was something strange about the way the Slytherins were flying. Not merely were they not being the typical underhanded players that they had always been before, but something was off at a fundamental level of their flying. Some of the better players studied it for a moment so as to recognize it as a slight inaccuracy in the flying, but as it would manifest on a difficult broom in the hands of good flyer – a good flyer could still work with such a manageable handicap. But it was still odd to see in the entire Slytherin team, and this posed the wary question: why and how was this the case?  
  
Again, a reasonably competent flier has a few good ideas about what conditions would decrease control – if only from a bit of logic or a little experience with an inferior (ie. school) broom. A broom that is too short or to too light is harder to control, tiniest movements have magnified ramifications on flight. They could go faster though, which is a terrifying, generally unwelcome consequence, given that expert flying on standard specifications is fast as all fucking hell anyway. There is good reason that the standard specifications are what they are: as the Ministry grew, some adrenaline junkie had the job of determining the absolute limit of sane flying. He did a perfect job of it, and has since been considered by many to be the best flyer, if in an extremist, slightly artistic way, that Europe has ever known. His speed and broom specifications had never been officially questioned or undermined.  
  
A second look at one of the Slytherin brooms quickly yielded the apparent and unhidden cause: their broomsticks were shaved down, smoothly but visibly; and, though less immediately obvious, their broomtails also bore signs of above average preening. Moves were executed precariously and unnecessarily fast, at the risk of all the nearby flyers almost as much as to the Slytherin daredevil him/herself. It was dangerous, but it gave an unanticipated advantage that the Slytherin team was willing to take great gambles to exploit. They did it well.  
  
Malfoy circled, a little lower than usual, but at a high speed, and narrow- mindedly searched for the snitch. Twenty five minutes later, it was the longest Malfoy had so seriously paid attention to in ages, months at least. Harry circled higher, at a cautious but calm pace. The game below was furious. The Slytherin team was in constant frantic motion, barely controlled and too fast for maneuvering well in the confined area in which that part of the game was unfolding. There were a number of near misses, a couple falls, and frenzied scoring, especially by the Slytherins. The Gryffindors had been taken off guard, and it had took them time to readjust; the Slytherins worked fast though, and scored greatly during those minutes, leaving the Gryffindors to work hard to close that gap.  
  
At the exact same moment that Malfoy sighted the Snitch, out of the corner of his eye, he also saw Potter's broom lurch after it. Harry had that split moment on Mafloy and was significantly closer, but the snitch was racing straight for the blond along almost the same path as Malfoy was speeding towards it. He had achieved a strong momentum by that time, and it made it easy to boost just a little faster.  
  
The whole game was suddenly a high-stakes round of chicken: on one hand, Malfoy would do anything to get the snitch; on the other hand, Harry was arrogant enough – and with some right – to be certain he could catch the snitch and not collide with Malfoy at perilous speeds and deadly heights. Objectively, Harry was the better player, but he had underestimated the magnification provided by the unsteady broom. Though the seekers weren't listening, the entire stadium was suddenly silent, tense with anticipation and mild disbelief. Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to reach the snitch only a couple of meters before him, and then, in the course of a second, the speeding snitch slapped into Malfoy's thin, oncoming hand. Harry thought he might have even heard sickening crack.  
  
Malfoy lurched away, the pain forcing him to grip himself to his broom. For a terrifying second he was freefalling, before he forced his left arm to pull off a miracle save. The height from which he falling aided by providing a bit of time to use the speed of the fall to quickly ease up. He landed as hastily as possible, a little ungracefully, while clutching his right hand to his chest. Both pain and satisfaction were displayed on his face, but he stood proud and defiant.  
  
The audience cheered and screamed on and on as the Slytherin team landed around Malfoy. "See!," he cried to them urgently. "It's all a matter of how much you're willing to risk and sacrifice win! Both bullies and victims take head!"  
  
The audience couldn't hear him over his cheering, but the Slytherin team, and some of the Gryffindor did. The Slytherins regarded him was a welcome element of respect, and the Gryffidors with looks of shock.  
  
"They cheated!," Ron yelled angrily and disbelievingly, and a few Gryffindors voiced uncertain agreement. In truth, most felt their own unwelcome respect for the bold and outrageous victory.  
  
Rage flared in Malfoy for a moment before he reigned it in, but not before it had bared his teeth. "Why? Because we came up with an unfair advantage to match your own?"  
  
Malfoy stormed away before the Gryffidor team could say anymore. Harry, however, stopped him before he got more than a few meters. He couldn't believe he had lost, everything was too much of a surprise... but he didn't think that the Slytherins had cheated, they had simply been will to risk more to win. They deserved to win, and Harry found it surprisingly easy to be a good loser. Harry offered his hand with as much sincerity as he could muster had, said, "Congratulations, Malfoy. I'm impressed."  
  
Malfoy nodded, an unusually mild frown on his brow; his voice was firm, thoughtful, neutral. "You should be. You are natural though Potter. The best, once you figure out to use it."  
  
There was no time for Harry to respond. Malfoy abruptly disengaged from their prolonged handshake, and strutted off, his team quickly following suit to make an impressive and delightfully bad-ass exit. Again, some things, some surprising things, don't change: Draco Mafloy could still pull off the best exits. To an extent, it was a case of 'I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go'. Mostly though, it was an extremely hard to achieve manifestation of 'I hate you, and I am in love with your absence'. It manifested individually, and so dictated peoples reactions and feelings to the young Malfoy.  
  
Slytherins were capable of a unique, but unstereotypically genuine love of those of valuable use. It sounded a bit callous in words, and it was calculated, but it was a faithful upholding of the saying, 'love the one you are with'. On one hand, it looked bad that Slytherins were willing to befriend anyone who served their interests; on the other hand, and equally valid (remember: Slytherins, and even Death Eaters, are people too), Slytherins were often capable of a significant degree of empathy, which frequently granted knacks for manipulation as a product of some insightful capacity to understand others. This degree of understanding, empathy, and even identification can make it easy to see and consciously focus on people's worthy and admirable qualities, and so to like them despite their faults.. Just as many successful Slytherins can exploit unseen weakness, they can often also recognize the truly sympathetic and redeeming in those many others couldn't.  
  
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room was slightly disbelieving gloom. The game had not been jinxed by being mentioning it beforehand, but there had been some expectation of a victory celebration. Defeat was unexpected, especially in the form it had taken – almost all the team members had enough respect for the victory, in its stunt-like way, not to be able to work an aggressive anger or grievance. It was just like, damn.  
  
Ron was, of course, tried to keep up the bitterness, "We could have done that too if we bothered worming form loopholes!," he proclaimed sulkily to an irritable audience.  
  
Ron was, of course, Ron, and as such, certain allowances were made for his behavior, even by his friends and family. Ron was just himself, for better or worse, and that was refreshing enough to be worth indulging. The common room was relatively empty for a Saturday night, and an unusual number were studying. The really bored, exhausted Gryffidor team was too strung out, emotionally and physically, to more than softly grunt in response to the now whining Weasley.  
  
Harry's mind easily spun on, trying to dispel his disappointment, decipher the strategy and practical implications of what the Slytherins had done (particularly with regards to future games), indulge a nagging and ongoing curiosity directed towards the young Malfoy anomaly; and finally, most recently, and with increasing demand for attention, bare a healthy baby migraine. He had never had anything quite like them before just a week earlier, and then suddenly he had had three killers headaches in six days.  
  
Harry vaguely understood the cause – his Occlumency and Legimensy was kicking his ass, and rightfully so, it was difficult stuff. Almost immediately upon his return to Hogwarts, Snape had cornered and accused him of not properly practicing his exercises. If Harry had, Snape had stated, Snape would have been able to sense the change. Harry recognized, on one hand, that he had been preoccupied with Sirius's death, Ron's illness, his own depression, the Durselys, etc., and had not have dedicated as much effort to it as could have; on the other hand, what Snape was having Harry do not was unreasonable. Harry had to be detention free just so that he could begin his grueling two hour mediation every night to clear his mind for sleep. And Snape was on him hard – responsibly, but in the most vicious way.  
  
As a result, Harry was having some excellently deep, yet control sleep; but the stress and effort was contributing to migraines. As the other times, Harry let it be fort a bit, while it was still minor, but excused himself from this mates and made his way to the infirmary before long, feeling down and a little frustrated. Mme Pompfrey was both relieved and sympathetic, a factor of having had Harry in the infirmary for so many more outrageous and worrisome symptoms that a migraine was a relief.  
  
"Wait just for a moment dear, I'll get something special for you. It's best when newly mixed, but very simple." The kindly, competent Pompfrey had just the perfect manner to pull off the frequently offensive medical condescension not uncommon amongst mediwitches and wizards. But Mme Pompfrey was good at subtle, yet uniquely perfect maternity, and this was vaguely comforting. She was also available to prattle when a student was too tired, hexed, vexed, or stressed to welcome participatory conversation; and yet at the same time offering a soothing affirmation of. . . life.  
  
Pompfrey explained the properties and components of the two mixers, and the relatively straightforward brewing process. Ug, brewing. Harry really did hate Potions, and Snape was such an insufferable asshole! And, uh, Malfoy just strode in. . .  
  
Malfoy was frowning slightly, as though permanent concern inhabited him; but his newfound and gradually improving mood control was making early leaps in the effort of keeping up appearances, even if they happened to be new appearances. The act reinforces itself and, before he could even understand it, or much else, he was inexplicably functioning by the seat of his pants. A true Slytherin recognizes that amazing and remarkable feats sometimes have to be executed in the name of survival; and Malfoy had indeed done a remarkable job.  
  
He walked up to Harry and Mme Pompfrey, his right hand clutched to his chest. He took a stand facing Pompfrey, who looked up and asked, "What seems to be the problem, dear?" The infirmary had seen Malfoy quite a few times already that quarter, and her sympathy for his obvious difficulties outweighed the aggravation of his volatile behavior. As a teenager, she had been smart, outgoing Hufflepuff, one of the most popular and successful students at Hogwarts; as an adult, she was an excellent display of what Hufflepuff had to offer. She felt for the boy, despite his anger and hostility, because his repetitive visits and his frequent bruise and cut badges bore witness to his pain, even if it was only a scratch on the surface of a great mountain.  
  
Malfoy endeavored to answer after taking a discretionary look at Harry; he leaned quietly against the wall, and observed calmly through thick lashes. "I broke my hand."  
  
"Oh no! I was worried when I saw that catch. Show it to me!" She hurried to finish Harry's brew, briefly taking a look at the hand: it was very swollen and red.  
  
"Draco! You only came now?," she chided, handing Harry his bottled mix.  
  
"Well, they were celebrating our victory, setting the House's morale and mood for the year, and forming all those early alliances. I needed to scope it out, make my abrasive presence felt," Malfoy bitterly and sarcastically. Harry's aching head allowed mild amusement.  
  
"What are you smirking at, Pothead?," Malfoy challenged..  
  
"Leave him alone, he has a migraine. Harry, go take that far bed there. Drink about half of the potion and rest til you feel better. And you young man, come with me and we'll fix that arm up."  
  
Malfoy awkwardly let himself be led into a curtained off area amidst harmless tuts, and Harry did as told. He faintly heard their muttering, but could not make out what was being said. He was so damn tired. . .  
  
Harry shot out of the sudden onset deep sleep, pulse racing from the terror of the nightmare flash of contact with Voldemorte, a terrifying peak at his sick, twisted self. He sat up instantly, panicked and disoriented, reaching instinctively out for a hold with its body and mind. Hands encountered the bed, unleashed mind encountered. . . another mind, unusually tempting, as though was an unnatural void to fill.  
  
No, not a void. Just, a speeding sense of emptiness. Was time out of sync? He couldn't quite get his bearings. . .  
  
{{POTTER!!!}}  
  
What do you think? Completely psychotic? Understandable at all? I promise the next one will be written drug-free, and much sooner. Haven't you heard? I am starting my life over as an alcoholic. Jeez. . . maybe I really do have a problem. But who cares? I just graduated with good grades, a great boyfriend, and a bright future. And they say drugs ruin your life. . . Okay, that was my epitaph to drugs. Now, to the future! 


	7. Thoughts

Disclaimer: No. Not mine. Sue me if you dare, but I am unemployed, so it would not be worth your time. Hey, any of you Chicago readers want to give me a job? Will work for food.  
  
Ch. Thoughts  
  
A strange, foreign, exotic, enticing void: the extrasensory substance of an elusive mind. If only the pattern could be recognized, it could be understood, and appreciated more greatly. But it was chaos, pulling him like the vacuum of nothingness pulling in material, an there was sickening feeling of vertigo. . . Then an abrupt termination.  
  
{{POTTER!!!}}  
  
The enraged voice thundered deafeningly in Harry's mind, and he was instantly slammed back to reality as though rebounding off an onracing brick wall.  
  
Snap! Gasp! Arugh! Harry's mind felt a violent stab, then he collapsed in on himself in reaction to the sudden overwhelming pain. And then, just like that, it dulled as quickly as a volume button readjustment.  
  
Another gasp was drawn from him, this time one of relief.  
  
Harry opened his eyes to focus on none other than Malfoy, observing him warily, somewhat angrily, but with a hint of hesitant curiosity. The Slytherin ego wanted to storm off, to lash out, to fight; but his id definitely (and inexplicably, as is the way of the id) desired something indefinable from this interaction with the Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
"Just what the fuck do you think you are doing, Potter?," Malfoy hissed loudly, accusingly.  
  
Harry struggled to respond, but the pain still preoccupied much of his cognitive power: thinking was slow and arduous. . . Malfoy. Not looking as murderous as unexpected . . . Does he, uh, actually expect a response?. . .  
  
"It was an accident, I swear!," he managed in his defense.  
  
"That was quite an accident. You should be quarantined! Or, better yet, put down," Malfoy bit back with narrowed brows.  
  
Harry suddenly felt a pang of fear as he was hit by the realization of how much trouble he would be in Malfoy told someone – particularly Professor Snape. Or worse yet, Voldemote. He quashed a vicious retort before it made it passed his lips.  
  
That's never happened before! I was just waking up from this, this fucking. . . nightmare. . .," Harry trailed off unexpectedly as a new ache materialized before his mind's eye It was just too much; a serious confrontation with Malfoy, crazed or not, with all its various implications and consequences, was not within the capacity of his current energy reserves.  
  
"I'm sorry, Malfoy," he sighed tiredly, bringing his palms up to rub his eyes.  
  
The steely Slytherin eyed him appraisingly for a long moment, then took two steps closer and, with a concerned frown, as though civility was itself a challenge, bit out, "Let me give you a piece of advice, Potter. You had better get your act together, or a lot of people are going to die. Including you. And me."  
  
Harry heavily fell back to lay on the bed and closed his eyes. "Fuck off, Malfoy. You have no idea what kind of shit I have to deal with."  
  
Malfoy was so silent that Harry thought for a moment that the blond had indeed fucked off, but he had no such luck. "Maybe. But it's really only a question of will power. Are you strong enough to hold it together or will life make you fall apart?"  
  
Why wouldn't this annoying and clearly off-kiltered prat leave him alone? Harry breathed heavily for several long seconds before, without bothering to open his eyes, responding calmly, "I am plenty strong enough to look after myself without your sorry advice. Besides, you hardly seem to be in a position to give advice on keeping one's act together. Now kindly remove yourself from my presence."  
  
Harry couldn't see Malfoy's glare, but he sensed the flare of anger coming from his classmate. "As usual, you have no fucking idea what you are talking about, Potter. I am the fucking master of keeping it together. And believe me, it IS a matter of will power."  
  
The thin Slytherin marched out of the infirmary before Harry had time to come up with a reply.  
  
All night, laying in the infirmary, only two things preoccupied his mind, pain . . . and Malfoy. The flash in the other boy's mind had been incomparable to anything he had ever encountered before – though he admitted to himself that his experience with such happenings were limited to his Occlumency lessons with Snape and the occasional unwanted brush with Voldemorte's sick mind, neither of whom he consider good markers for comparison. Still, the unrecognizable chaos of Malfoy's mind couldn't have been normal. . . could it? Harry hadn't even been able to make out understandable memories or thoughts, just. . . disorganization and absence.  
  
And what about the cryptic conversation that had followed? Really, it only served to confirm what everyone was saying – that Malfoy had completely lost it – but it was still a bizarre question mark in his mind, and his mind kept replaying the exchange as if to puzzle out the meaning. Harry couldn't help but think that was some reason to Malfoy's madness, but whatever it was wasn't revealing itself to his ponderings.  
  
Harry tried to force both to the side when he left the infirmary in time for breakfast the next morning. He spared a glance at the Slytherin table to see Malfoy picking lazily at his food, the perpetual scowl on his face and an abandoned scroll next to him, then sat himself down across from Ron and Hermione. Unfortunately, they were also talking about Malfoy, as indeed, after the game the day before, much of the early breakfast crowd was.  
  
"Harry," Hermoine greeted him worriedly. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah mate. Since when does a headache require a spending the night in the infirmary?," Ron joined in, before shoving an entire blood sausage into his mouth (Hermione shot him a quick look of disgust).  
  
"Ever since I was Harry bleeding Potter," Harry sighed. "I'm fine though. I was just tired and fell asleep there, and then Mme Pompfrey didn't wake me up. I did have a strange encounter with Malfoy though. Did you know he broke his hand when he caught that snitch?"  
  
Harry was a bit irritated with himself for his continuous thinking about Malfoy, but it was the conversation that he had walked into. Ron hurumphed and Hermoine rolled her eyes. "I really do not understand boys' obsession with hurting themselves for the sake of a stupid game."  
  
"Yes, well, it's not something I would expect a GIRL to understand," Ron retorted immaturely. Hermoine raised an eyebrow, Malfoy-style, as if to say, is that all you got? "Especially not a bookworm like you!"  
  
Ooo, Hermoine looked a little pissed by that last comment, and fired back, "Yeah, well, this bookworm can beat Malfoy at her game better than you can at yours!"  
  
"That's not fair! Malfoy's flying's gotten better since he's become a raving loony! His grades are in the crapper! Even Harry and me have been outscoring him! At least we're not FAILING every subject," Ron blurted out in one breath.  
  
"Hey, don't bring me into this," Harry interjected, but the two barely noticed, and the argument just escalated.  
  
"Oh, so as long as you don't fail and you're winning at academics? I don't think so, Ron Weasley. We'll just see who's won when no one wants to hire you or let you into uni!"  
  
Harry watched Ron's quickly shift to a most unbecoming shade of dark red, then decided that he didn't really want to be around for the end of what had to be one of the stupidest arguments he had ever borne witness to. He grabbed a pastry and an apple and stepped away from the table. His friends were too rapped up in fighting to notice, as they also failed to notice the rapid approach of a very hostile Snape. Harry made his get away and departed the Great Hall in time to hear Gryffindor lose twenty points and both his friends get detention. He felt a little guilty for abandoning them, but abandoned the guilt in favor of annoyance at their behavior. He expected that much from Ron, but Hermione didn't usually lower herself to his level. At least, she hadn't until recently. This touchy feely bickering that they were frequently engaging in these days was no great pleasure to any of the Gryffindors who had to endure it. Alas, individual discussion with both Hermoine and Ron had not had the desired effect of convincing either to reveal their feelings; it would seem that nature was determined to bring them together at her own maddening pace.  
  
Before he knew it, Harry found himself in the library. It was, after all, Sunday, and he supposed that starting some of Monday's homework would probably be a good idea. In previous years this might be considered unusual behavior, but his recent penchant for calm and solitude found the idea perfectly acceptable. And so he spent most of the day intermittently writing, reading, and watching the people come and go.  
  
Malfoy showed up in library an hour after Harry; and, after taking a seat several table down and meticulously arranging his quills, books, and scrolls, promptly fell asleep.  
  
Hermione arrived after lunch with a scowl on her face. Harry barely looked up from his writing as she sat down across from him in a huff.  
  
"Ron?," he asked with disinterested.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Hmm," Harry acknowledged.  
  
"Here. I brought you some lunch." Hermione pushed a sandwich across the table.  
  
Finally, Harry looked up, glancing thoughtfully at the sandwich before meeting his friend's gaze. "You know, Nev, Dean, and Luna have also asked me if I was going to resurrect DA this year."  
  
Hermione perked an eyebrow at him. "Now do you believe me when I say it's a good idea? Professor Dylan hasn't shown any signs of being an evil freak so far, but surely it's only a matter of time. Besides, a lot of these students are people you're going to want to fight next to you, so you should at least help them prepare-"  
  
"I know, I know! You made the argument on the train. And I think you're right. I just. . . don't have the time. With Quidditch, and," his voice lowered to a sharp whisper, "my so-called remedial potions! Not to mention that there is more school work than ever before, AND I have to meditate for a bleeding hour every night!"  
  
Harry dropped his head, allowing it to hit the table with a thunk. Hermione looked at him appraisingly. "Well, there's no need for all the work to fall on your shoulders."  
  
Harry looked up with a child-like expression of hope on his face. Hermione smiled. "Well, most of us have something that we can do well. We can take turns leading DA and teaching our specialty. You can do a powerful Patronus, which is fabulous. But Ginny can do a wicked Bat-Bogey hex. And even though you're captain, isn't Ron your strategist? Isn't he the best chess player in the school? There's definitely skill there. And I have actually gone to Luna for help with memory charms! And Seamus-"  
  
"Okay! I get your point. And I'm sure you've already got your lessons all planned out."  
  
"Does that mean you agree?," Hermione asked excitedly.  
  
"Yes, o studious one."  
  
"Good! I'll pass out the coins again, and recruit some new members. And run it by Dumbledore, of course. . ." She prattled on for a bit more, but Harry's attention wandered. He really didn't mind that she was orchestrating the takeover of DA, as it was one less stress for him to worry about.  
  
His eyes fell on Malfoy. "We need someone who knows dark arts," he blurted without thinking.  
  
Hermione's surprised face turned to see where Harry was looking. "I don't really think Malfoy would really be the best candidate."  
  
Harry's attention returned to his friend. "Yeah, you're right. It was just a thought."  
  
Malfoy woke up just in time for dinner.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had spent all day in the library and accomplished nothing. Again. He was beginning to hate his new self as much as his old self. At least his old self was competent. And had an attention span of longer than a minute. And didn't fall asleep any time he had to focus on something longer than that. He had been trying, hadn't he? Trying to get his act together, just like he had told Potter. He'd managed to get his temper under control, and Snape had managed to keep Dumbledore off his back, but his grades and magic were fucked.  
  
All he wanted to do was go back to sleep.  
  
Please review. It encourages my waning interest in this story. Unfortunately, I have conceived of another story line and so am attempting valiantly to stick with this one. Are you interested? Should I keep writing? Should I reveal what has happened to Draco in the ASAP, or should the audience not find out until Harry finds out? 


	8. The Lightening Rod

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the world. Ergo, I own nothing.  
  
Reviewers: Thank you! As per most of your advice, the mystery of Malfoy will continue to unravel slowly only as Harry begins to understand.  
  
Ch. 8: The Lightening Rod  
  
Hermione had a field day getting everything set up for DA. She contacted all the old members, found a few cautious recruits from Slytherin, had the club okayed by Dumbledore and sponsored by McGonagall. Within a week of her talk with Harry, she had drawn up a schedule of meeting leaders and times.  
  
Tuesday, November 8th – Harry Potter  
  
Tuesday, November 15th – Hermione Granger  
  
Tuesday, November 22nd – Padma Patil and Luna Lovegood  
  
Harry quickly scanned the thirty something names – most of the 6th year Gryffindors, a few 5th and 7th year Gryffindors, some of the 5th, 6th and 7th year Ravenclaws, a handful of Hufflepuffs, and a couple of Slytherins.  
  
"Millicent Bulstrode?," Harry asked skeptically, forcing Ron to spit out his orange juice and start choking on his own laughter. They were once again eating breakfast in the Great Hall. "And Theodore Nott?! You do know that he's repeating the year?"  
  
Ron was gasping for breath as tears of mirth rolled down his face. Hermione ignored him entirely. "Yes, all the more reason for him to come to our meetings."  
  
"Aren't you worried that one of them might be reporting back to Vol-uh, You- Know-Who?," Harry asked seriously as Ron pulled himself together.  
  
"Harry, this is no longer a secret club. Word will get out anyway. Besides, I think it is more important to convert who we can. Or at least not drive them into the arms of the enemy."  
  
Ron snorted. "A Slytherin on our side? I'll believe it when I see it." Harry's eyes flickered over the Slytherin table where Malfoy was, as usual, sitting alone and both dejectedly and crossly picking at his food.  
  
"And you're more likely to see it if you try to make it happen," Hermione replied patiently.  
  
Harry cut off Ron's response. "I agree. Besides, they're bound to know something we don't. A little diversity might help us cover more of our bases."  
  
"Bases?," Ron asked.  
  
"You explain it," Harry said to Hermione as he got up to leave. Then, with a wicked grin, he added, "And don't stop til you two get to second base. Anything beyond that and you should probably go somewhere more private."  
  
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"Okay. Now that everyone is here, I would like to make it clear that even though I am leading the DA meeting today, most meetings will not be like this. We are going to be taking turns leading these sessions, and each teaching what they think they are exceptionally good at." Harry eyed the two Slytherins would had just slinked in late, and who were receiving their fair share of suspicious glances. "We are also here to try and forge some kind of inter-house solidarity. Voldemort – don't flinch at his name! Don't give him that much power! Voldemort only has as much power as we give him. There is no reason anyone should want to side with Voldemort unless we give it to them, and he will not win unless we let him!"  
  
Not the most convincing speech ever made, but the students appreciated Harry's vigor and effort, and so applauded and cheered; Bulstrode and Nott looked particularly smug.  
  
"So, as co-founder of DA, I propose that, for today, each student will stand before everyone and first display their most powerful ability. And by this I do not mean hair straightening spells, Parvarti!"  
  
There was light laughter, but Parvarti was popular enough to take such joking in stride. "To tame your hair it would have to be quite powerful indeed!"  
  
More laughter, and Harry smiled, glad that morale wasn't as low as he feared, what with the disappearances and deaths that were taking place in the outside world. "Then after each demonstration, you will tell us what they would most like to work on. That way, we can pair people off to work on what they think is the most important. Any questions?"  
  
There were, of course, some asinine questions that were answered irritably by Hermione, and the parade of talents began. The acts varied from predicable to impressive to embarrassing to ridiculous. Of particular interest and originality were Bulstrode's and Lovegood's demonstrations. Everyone had gone in alphabetical order, being able to use the previous student as their "assistant" (in other words, "target"). Bulstrode came after Lavender Brown, and laid a nasty "resilio membrum" on her which caused her arms and legs to immediately shrink to mere inches. Brown had started crying and the Gryffindors had gotten mad, but when Ron had tried to approach Bulstrode, she had aimed her wand at him and warned maliciously, "I'd stop right there if I were you, Weasel. Just remember that boys have a fifth member that also shrinks."  
  
After some crafty mediation on the part of Hermione and Harry, the rest of the Gryffidors backed down, Lavander was returned to normal with a simple "Finite Incantantem", and Cho Chang was able exact a bit of payback during her demonstration.  
  
Luna Lovegood, on the other hand, had proven the dangers of the imagination on a fifth year Ravenclaw named Gavin Liss. She explained that "videre species" – a spell designed to cause hallucinations (and sometimes used recreationally) – created different effects depending on pronunciation and intent of the caster. The normally inconspicuous Liss had immediately started dashing blindly around the room once hit, screeching at a non- existent "Humbledinker" to go find its jollies elsewhere. And, damn, but the boy could run. It took Harry and Hermione a good five minutes to hit him with at "Finite Incantatem" (while everyone else laughed their asses off).  
  
All in all, the first meeting went surprisingly well – especially as a social event, with everyone leaving in good spirits. Hermione was displeased that they hadn't gotten around to pairing off, but Harry was happy, and ended the meeting by leading everyone in rounds of a song he and Ron had put together just minutes before the meeting had started:  
  
"Laugh, laugh at Voldemort, That ugly puss-oozing uber-wart. Yes, laugh, laugh at Voldie, He's stinky and he's moldy!"  
  
It was idiotic, but it got the point across: if you're too afraid to even speak his name, what chance do you have of fighting against him?  
  
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The next day, about twenty minutes into double Charms, Professor Flitwick ordered the class outside. Half the class was already out the door when it became obvious that one student was not moving: Malfoy had, propped up on a thin hand, fallen asleep. It had become a common occurrence, along with his constant distraction, but it was the first time that he had been heard emitting muffled snores, and several of the students giggled.  
  
"MR. MALFOY!"  
  
Malfoy jerked awake, his head promptly falling to bang against the desk. There were more laughs as Malfoy jumped to his feet in a flurry of curses  
  
"Mr. Malfoy! Watch your language! Gather your things and join the class outside."  
  
The Professors had, for the most part, stopped taking points away from Slytherin for Malfoy's behavior: it simply wasn't fair to his house and it seemed to have no effect of Malfoy except to further incur the barely contained wrath of his housemates. Detentions too had abated somewhat as, on one hand, the teachers developed sympathy for the clearly unstable Malfoy, who had been accruing detentions faster than he could work them off; and, on the other hand, the number of fights and other incidents Malfoy participated in had declined as his behavior and situation became more settled. He was making an obvious effortto keep to himself and to perfect the art of ignoring the world, while everyone else was generally keeping their distance.  
  
Malfoy scowled and slinked after retreating forms of Professor Flitwick and his fellow students. Why were they going outside? He couldn't think of a time that Charms had ever necessitated them being outside before. He also couldn't place this aggravating ditty that he had heard hummed almost a dozen times already that day, and was currently being hummed by Weasley and Potter. Uh, and now someone else was joining in. . .  
  
Once on the Quidditch pitch, Malfoy stood away from the gaggle of students who completely blocked his view of his small professor, his gaze traveling disinterestedly over Parkinson's blond tresses, Zabini's chestnut curls, Granger's unruly bush. . . Then he heard Flitwick's squeaky (but surprisingly loud) voice, "Advoco aethra aqua!"  
  
Malfoy's attention finally perked up at what happened next: a small cloud, about half a meter in diameter, condensed about two meters off the ground (above Flitwick's head, he guessed, though he couldn't actually see). Corresponding to various noises of appreciation made by some of the students, Malfoy watched rain begin to fall from the cloud. Malfoy was. . . impressed, actually; his mouth parted slightly and his frown softened.  
  
"Okay, class. You saw how I did it. It's really not that hard. Now spread out and give it a try." The students dispersed in small groups across the field, leaving Malfoy even more alone. He took his wand out from his robes and looked at it wistfully. He had been excused from spell casting by all the teachers, and he had pretty much given up on trying anything beyond very simple spells when he was alone. Snape had offered to help him, but Malfoy knew that he had to get his own mind together before being able to get anything out of help. His mind felt like an open wound, that any touch would burn, that needed to scab over before the soothing balm progress could be applied. The two sessions he had tried to submitted himself had accomplished nothing more than aggravate both himself and Professor Snape, and Malfoy really didn't want to end up attacking and alienating the only person who seemed to actually care. So he refused the help. For the moment.  
  
Malfoy looked up from his wand to watch his fellow students attempting the charm. He could see Granger's perfectly formed cloud and a dozen other half formed ones, and he was filled with a sudden sad longing, accompanied by a brief memory of a blond child who found comfort in the pattering sound of rain and in the rivulets of water running down his skin. He felt a connection with that boy that he never had before, and when he looked back at his knobby wand, he also felt a surge of determination and magical power. He could do this, and excitement bubbled up in him. The sudden optimism felt better than anything he had felt in so long; it was breath of relief for from the suffocating despair that he constantly fought against.  
  
He turned his back to block his effort from as many of his classmates as possible, though none were paying any attention to him anyway. He hesitantly pointed his wand towards the sky, and with a quick swish and flick, whispered, "Advoco aethra aqua."  
  
Nothing happened. And no one noticed.  
  
Stealing himself against humiliation, and with a growing fear-inspired nausea battling with his hope, he raised his wand to the sky like his classmates were doing, and clearly pronounced, "Advoco aethra aqua."  
  
The wand fired off a loud BANG, propelling Malfoy to the ground with such force that he felt consciousness waver for a second before everything snapped into high resolution clarity. Not unlike being slapped down by the gods.  
  
He made out laughter. Malfoy could particularly identify Weasley's heehaws and Parkinson's squeals of hilarity, and he felt the familiar flood of rage and hate – not directed only at his ridiculers, but at his father, at Voldemort, and Dumbledore, and the world, and himself for his incompetence and weakness.  
  
The laughter died down as Malfoy's faced colored and contorted, and as Professor Flitwick hurrieded where the Slytherin was lay winded. "Mr. Malfoy! Have you injured yourself? You know you are not supposed to use your wand!"  
  
Flitwick was so short that he didn't even need to lean down to place a hand on Malfoy's arm. The touch sprang Malfoy's aching body into action, not even thinking as neurons fired reflexively, and he leaped up to his feet and stumbled away, almost falling in the process.  
  
More laughter.  
  
"Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou! FUCK YOU!," he screamed, whipping around like a caged animal, each face of his fellow student edging on his desperate frenzy.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy!," Professor Flitwick exclaimed, but his voice wasn't even heard by his crazed pupil.  
  
Weasley's mocking voice, however, did penetrate the wrathful madness that consumed Mafloy. "Hey, Malfoy! Forgot something?"  
  
The gray eyes narrowed on the tall redhead, losing focus of everything else, and for a moment he looked like an enraged and wounded bull before a flashing red flag. He barely heard Granger's concerned and disapproving, "Stop antagonizing him."  
  
But the words did filter through to him, and with a sudden snap, something of a breakthrough took place, with Malfoy's anger reaching a sort of critical mass beyond which he was suddenly able to seize some semblance of control. The fury was pulsing through him, rhythmically, powerfully... like magic.  
  
"Go fry and fuck yourself with it, Weasel!," Malfoy screeched manicallyy. "I don't fucking need it!"  
  
Logic and thinking had nothing to do with the behavior that followed – it was entirely instinctual and emotional, as though he could feel that he would burst if his rage was not released. Malfoy felt more like a conduit than a person as he flung his head back and shot his arms up in the air, and with all his force of will and effort, at the top of his hoarse lungs, he cried, "ADVOCOOO AETHRAAA AQUAAA!"  
  
No one laughed. Malfoy had by this point worked himself into such a state that he looked positively frightening. Sweaty and discolored, every muscle tensed and bones in sharp relief, eyes squeezed shut and screaming at the sky like some raving lunatic: he looked like a figure the gods just might take pity on. For a long moment everyone nervously stared at Malfoy. When nothing happened, there were a few nervous giggles, and sighs of relief. Ron could be heard muttering, "Crazy bugger."  
  
But then there was a girly scream from Parkinson, who was pointing at the sky, and it quickly became obvious at what: dark, bulbous clouds were not only condensing above the Quidditch pitch, but they were also migrating in from all directions. And it was a matter of fifteen seconds before the daylight sky was completely blocked out, and the air was thick with humidity.  
  
Granger was looking up in awe, most of the other students were looking up in fear, and Potter was still looking at the human sculpture responsible. Is this what Malfoy considered "keeping it together"? There was a pregnant pause, in which Flitwick overcame his awe enough to speak out. "Mr. Malfoy! Cease and desist at once!"  
  
Then the rain came down in heavy icy sheets, soaking everyone in seconds, while Malfoy remained as still as a statue. Flitwick was horrified that his class had gotten so out of control, and he ordered everyone back inside. Most legged it, but, typically, the Trio did little more than take a few steps towards the castle. They watched in morbid fascination as Flitwick attempted several ineffective "Finite Incantantem"s with increasing panic on his face.  
  
A jagged streak of lightening CRACKED through the sky and struck Malfoy, forcing him to spasm and shake while still standing; there was the sound of popping and sizzling, the smell of burning flesh, an unnatural magic maintaining a line of electricity between the turbulent cloud layer, Malfoy's frail body, and the unyielding ground.  
  
For everyone present, time creeped by, though in reality, Harry had reacted almost immediately and unthinkingly, and in a manner of seconds he slammed himself into Malfoy at a high speed. A scream of agony was ripped from Harry's chest as he too felt the energy flow through him for a fraction of a moment, before it snapped back and both Harry and Malfoy tumbled to the ground.  
  
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Please review. I now I don't ever write any responses, but I read them and take them seriously, am always open to advice, and they inspire me to write on! 


	9. A Proposal in the Infirmary

Disclaimer: No, not mine. Nada, zilch, nothing. I am scum before JK Rowling's alter of filthy richness.  
  
Note: A list of common effects of being struck by lightening can be found at:   
  
Ch.9: A Proposal in the Infirmary  
  
Harry lazily blinked awake, and it only took him a moment to recognize the white ceiling of the Infirmary. Then his hearing kicked in and he recognized the sound of nearby activity.  
  
"What will their condition be when they wake up?" And that was definitely Snape, sounding grumpy, but uncharacteristically worried.  
  
"Well, the most common side effects are attention deficit, memory deficit, sleep disturbance, irritability, dizziness, numbness caused by nerve damage, joint stiffness, and light phobia." Clearly Mme Pomfrey. "Most of which it could be argued Malfoy is already suffering from. Potter was subjected to the electricity for an even shorter period of time, so his side effects should be much less severe. Malfoy should be considered lucky. It's a miracle that Miss Granger was able to revive him and get his beating again. Tell me, dear, wherever did you learn your technique?"  
  
"It's a muggle procedure called CPR – uh, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation that is. I learned it when I took an emergency survival class when I was a kid." Harry had difficultly hearing Hermione's proud yet respectfully low explanation, so he tried to sit up. His arms were weak, and dizziness hit, causing him to grunt with the effort and thereby draw attention to himself.  
  
"Harry!," Ron and Hermione cried in unison, rushing towards him and carelessly throwing their arms around him.  
  
"Uh. Please," Harry croaked. "Not so loud. I feel like I'm suffering from the world's worst hang over."  
  
The two immediately pulled away with almost identical expressions of concern on their face. Behind them, Mme Pomfrey was approaching with a kindly smile on her face, and behind her, at the far end of the room, Professor Snape could be seen turning towards the Infirmary's other occupied bed.  
  
"How are feeling, Harry?," Pomfrey asked gently.  
  
Like shit. "Like I just stuck my finger in the worlds biggest electrical socket."  
  
"Which you pretty much did," Hermione inserted.  
  
"Well, Harry, it could have been a lot worse. You have some mild nerve damage responsible for any numbness you feel, but we've got you on a potion that should allow regeneration within a few weeks. Other than that, you should be fine, once you've rested up. . . That was a really brave thing you did, though a little foolish. Anyone who has grown up amongst muggles should know that electricity is easily conducted between living matter."  
  
Harry gave a pained smile. "I know, ma'am. I wasn't thinking really, I just reacted." And it was the truth – his body had known immediately what to do before his mind had even realized what was happening to Malfoy.  
  
"Well, Malfoy is lucky for that too. Even a second or two longer with that level of energy running through him, and he would certainly have died."  
  
"Is he. . . okay?," Harry asked, a little embarrassed and surprised by his own unexpected concern. Indeed, Ron was looking at him with a fair amount of skepticism, and even Hermione had her curious expression on.  
  
Pomfrey just smiled though. "He will be, thanks to you. His body took quite a beating, but if there is one thing that can be said about that boy, it's that he's resilient." Her expression was fond, and Harry remembered how she had cared for them both just over a week ago when they had been in the Infirmary after the Quidditch match. "Anyway, young man, you should really get some rest and let your body recover. I will get you something to ease the pain, and you two" – eying Ron and Hermione – "can come back tomorrow morning to either visit or escort him back to his dorm room if he is feeling up to it."  
  
Pomfrey bumbled off, leaving the three Gryffindors to say their goodbyes.  
  
"That was awful brave today," Hermione gushed. "I'm so proud of you!"  
  
It was Ron's turn to roll his eyes. "I just can't believe your in here again because of that crazy git."  
  
There was another group hug, then Ron and Hermione left with smiles on their faces and affectionate farewells. Harry turned his attention to Snape and the bed on the other side of the room, but his focus was a little blurry and he could make out little beyond platinum hair and white bed sheets. There was a pang of disappointment, and faint desire to see for himself if Malfoy was alright; then Pomfrey returned with a warm drink of something mixed with chocolate. Snape passed by Harry's bed as he faded back asleep.  
  
"Well done, Potter, I have to say. You may be insufferable, but I'd still rather suffer you than not. . . And don't think this excuses you from. . . Remedial Potions." It may have been the sleep, but the Professor almost sounded human.  
  
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Harry woke up in the wee hours of the morning to the faint sound of moaning. He was a bit groggy from the potion and it took him a long moment to place himself and realize the source of the noise. He struggled to sit up, testing his health – his body was still weak and stiff, his skin still tender, and his coordination felt off, but all of it was bearable. He carefully slid off the bed, fought off some mild dizziness, carefully picked up his wand for the side table, then carefully made his way across the room by moonlight.  
  
Even in the soft light Malfoy looked terrible, though probably better than should have been expected from one who had been subjected to as much electricity as he had. His face was slightly scrunched in pain, his eyes were moving quickly under his eyelids, and he was tense even in his sleep. His pallid skin was finely spotted red by a blanket of broken capillaries and glazed with a layer of sweat, and his hands and feet were both bandaged. His once lovely hair was dull and, well, fried. Strangely enough, it was this last detail that provoked Harry's sympathy, and he hesitantly reached a hand forward to stroke the brittle strands. A muffled whimper escaped, but the Slytherin slept on.  
  
Poor Malfoy. His father dead, his mother in St. Mungo's; ostracized by his house, picked on by much of the school; his magic out of control, his academics in the toilets.  
  
Harry frowned and withdrew his hand sharply. Similar things had happened to him, and yet he hadn't turned into a raving nutjob. He leaned closer and intently studied the delicate features, as though looking for clues. He felt like he was inspecting a disaster area, or maybe a corpse, and when his eyes found themselves resting on the scar that split a blond eyebrow, he murmured to himself, "Merlin, Malfoy, what happened here?"  
  
After a couple of moments, Harry began feeling tired on his feet and was tempted to return to bed, but the subtle muscle movements in Malfoy's face, feet, and hands, and the slight pickup in his rate of breathing signaled that he was waking up, and Harry knew how unfun it is to wake up alone and hurting in the middle of the night. He pulled up a chair, took Malfoy's bandaged hand, and tried valiantly to keep awake, but he was dozing off ten minutes later when Malfoy finally came to.  
  
"Potter," came the raspy croak, causing Harry to jerk awake. Malfoy was blinking at him somewhat pathetically from an expression rigid with pain. His entire body ached, his skin stinging and his insides throbbed horribly and incomparably.  
  
"Malfoy. How are you feeling?," Harry asked sleepily (and a little stupidly).  
  
Malfoy managed a slight glare of annoyance despite the fact that even the slightest movement hurt. Without hardly opening his mouth, he forced out, "Wat-er."  
  
Harry nodded and reached for the flask lying on the table stand, and took a quick sniff. "Smells like Pomfrey added a potion or two. Should probably help with the pain."  
  
Malfoy grunted unattractively and Harry cautiously got to his feet to tilt his companion's head up and gently pour the liquid through his chapped lips. Malfoy swallowed and swallowed and drunk the whole flask.  
  
"Wow. Thirsty much? Want me to get Pomfrey?"  
  
Malfoy managed a "no" that sounded much more human than his previous attempts and his face had relaxed perceptively, though there was a thoughtful dent in his forehead and he looked physically exhausted even as he lay on the bed. Harry struggled briefly for something to say before Malfoy offered a temporary solution. "I. . . can't feel. . . my fingers. . . or toes."  
  
He didn't sound particularly concerned, but Harry explained anyway. "There is some nerve damage, but Mme Pomfrey said that the potions should allow the nerves to regenerate given time."  
  
Malfoy turned his face towards Harry, allowing wakeful eyes to impassively study the Gryffindor before him. The look was somewhat unnerving and Harry felt the need to fill the silence by launching into, "That was quite a stunt you pulled, Malfoy. I can, uh, remember you blowing up the carriage on our first day back, but you almost killed yourself this time, and me. How did you even do it? Was it wandless magic? I mean, you can't get your wand to work properly, but you can bring down the wrath of the gods if you yell loud enough?"  
  
Malfoy's lips quirked ever so slightly. There was just something so. . . inoffensive and accessible – so human – about Potter. "Wha. . .what happened?," Malfoy asked with some effort. "Did I. . . bring down. . . the wrath of gods?" It soothed his beaten ego to think he had been capable of something like that, whatever the consequences to his physical well-being, and Malfoy savored the rare positive reinforcement of his determination to be more than a wreck of a human being. And Harry was more than willing to indulge him for the time being.  
  
Harry's mind flicked back to massive, ominous clouds billowing in and invading the sky at breathtaking speeds; to rain that fell so fat and cold that it hurt and obstructed sight; and to lightening that lit up dark land and charged the air with electricity and echoed loudly through the atmosphere. . . And Malfoy, writhing in pain and power, like something beyond human.  
  
"You just brought in every cloud in the greater UK area! And then when everyone was drenched and running for the castle, you had the gall to get struck by the biggest fucker of a lightening bolt ever to strike Europe! It was definitely the most impressive single instance of magic I have ever seen, and that is saying a lot," Harry blathered with a mixture of amusement, reprimand, and excitement; but ending more calmly with, "Really, Malfoy, it was. . . wow."  
  
Malfoy almost looked pleased at his words, and even made a try at humor. "Harry Potter. . . impressed by me. . . That is a. . . first."  
  
This was easily the longest and most civil conversation Harry and Malfoy had had since the day at Madam Malkins', and it made Harry feel uncharacteristically generous and sympathetic towards the debilitated blond. "You were always impressive Malfoy. An impressive pain in the ass maybe, but you've always had potential."  
  
Malfoy sighed. "That wasn't me. . . This. . . this was me." His eyes went distant, his brow creased faintly, and he turned his face towards the ceiling. "I thought. . . I was going to die."  
  
"You almost did," Harry responded factually, watchfully, gauging the blond's reaction.  
  
Malfoy's eyes focused sharply on Harry, and Harry could almost see his brain putting the pieces together – the most incriminating puzzle piece being, of course, Harry's very presence in the Infirmary. Suddenly Malfoy looked distinctly unhappy, despite the pain-induced virtual paralysis of his face. "You. . . fucking. . . saved me. . . Didn't you. . . Potter?, " he forced out between clenched teeth.  
  
Harry's eyes narrowed and he felt his own swell of anger. So this is how his sympathy and actions were being welcomed? It was obvious that Malfoy was still a the biggest prat known to man, crazy or not. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did! Merlin knows why, you certainly don't appreciate anything done for you! You keep on claiming not to be who you were, but your still the same asshole! Maybe I should have let you fry!"  
  
Harry angrily (and wobbily) got to his feet to go back to his bed.  
  
"Yes. . . you should have." Traces of anger and accusation, held in check only by pain and fatigue.  
  
Harry froze. It had not been the response he had expected, and his mind grasped to understand the implications of that statement: fear, for Malfoy, for another living being. And fear made Harry's mind sharp, perceptive, and controlled; he had always operated well under such circumstances, and now was no exception. He gave the still figure another searching look, then leaned down so that he could closely inspect the enigmatic face from the distance of only a few centimeters. "Are those tears, Malfoy? Are you actually capable of some emotion other than hate?," he asked coldly, without emotion, without empathy, without pity. "Do you wish you had died? Do you despair?"  
  
An accusing Potter, an angry Potter, pitying Potter – Malfoy could not have answered with anything but rage; but callous and inhuman Potter drained Malfoy's emotions and left him empty. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and as dead as his companion's had been. "Yes, Potter. . . I despair."  
  
Potter straightened himself and, leaning heavily on Malfoy's mattress, sat back down. His mind raced haphazardly: he didn't want to lose this connection, however tenuous, with Malfoy; he didn't want Mafloy and him to continue on as they had since 6th year, with Malfoy not even noticing him, not even noticing anything or anyone that wasn't antagonizing him. He didn't like seeing his old rival so down and out of sorts, and his instincts made a decision without even consulting his mind.  
  
"Then I am going to help you. And don't you dare object, because this is not pity. This is a deal, if you agree. You have power that I have never seen. Ever. Not in Voldemort, and not even in you before this year began. I want to learn to develop power like yours. And if I can't, then I want to use you as a weapon against Voldemort. In return, I will be the friend that you most desperately need right now. I will help you keep out of trouble, I will help you get control of yourself, and I will help you pull up your grades. Basically, I will help you get your life together and figure out how to harness your power. In return, you will fight beside me."  
  
There was a long, still silence in which both parties replayed Harry's words over in their heads. Harry himself couldn't believe what had come out of his mouth in a moment of pressure, and was even more impressed to see in retrospect that there was even a degree of logic to his suggestion – even though he had no idea how he intended to make either side of the bargain work. Fix Malfoy's problems? Learn Malfoy's power? What had he been thinking? He didn't even know what Malfoy's problem or power was. . .  
  
Malfoy had, apparently, been thinking along the same lines. "Believe me . . .it's not even possible. . . for you to . . . fuck yourself up enough . . . to be this fucked up." His voice was tired and resigned, and his eyes had closed.  
  
"So what, your just going to give up?," Harry challenged forcefully, but without anger.  
  
"Could you just. . . leave me alone?" It wasn't quite begging, but it was definitely pathetic.  
  
Harry looked at Malfoy's delicate face – his pointy nose, his thin lips, his splotchy skin, the dark smudges under his eyes – and he took pity. "Sure, Malfoy. But I seem to remember you leaving me in the Infirmary with some advice just over a week ago, so let me return the favor: I, the great fucking Harry Potter, would have died many times over it wasn't for the help of my family, my friends, and, hell, even strangers."  
  
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I have been very good, posted very quickly (oh, the greatness of unemployment); so, please review! I deserve it! Reviews are my payment for slaving away!  
  
Poll Question: Should HP fall for DM before or after finding out the what happened to him? 


	10. Of Books and Conversations

Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
Ch. 10: Of Books and Conversations  
  
Harry left the next morning while Malfoy was still asleep, which the latter did almost constantly for the next two days. Snape visited each day, but never stayed long and never required taxing conversation. The only other visitor Malfoy had was Headmaster Dumbledore, who came by on the third day, when Malfoy had healed enough to sit up and stay awake for extended periods of time. (Harry had briefly considered stopping by, but decided that he had wasted enough time and energy on the difficult blond for the time being; the ball was now in his court.)  
  
"Draco?" Ever since Mafloy's breakdown in his office at the beginning of the year, Dumbledore had made a point of calling the boy by his first name. Malfoy might not have liked either of his names, but the Headmaster figured that the first was preferable. He did, after all, have to go by something.  
  
Malfoy opened his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, just. . . meditating. "Sir?"  
  
"How are you recovering?," the old man asked kindly.  
  
"As well as can be expected, sir."  
  
"Good, good." They eyed each other for a moment, as if assessing the other's intentions and mental state.  
  
"If you expel me, Voldemort will have me killed," Malfoy stated tightly, a sudden onslaught of real fear gripping his lungs.  
  
"You are not being expelled. But you surely understand that a repeat of last Wednesday is simply not acceptable?"  
  
Malfoy nodded, eyes cast down. He was a little surprised at his own reaction – he had been feeling significantly less ready to fly off the handle since getting shocked. Irritable, yes, but not on edge.  
  
"I know you have refused Professor Snape's help with regards to resolving your issues. But don't you think it is time that you at least try to resolve your issues? In whatever way you think the most acceptable?"  
  
Now Malfoy felt angry, and he leaned forward in the bed, but his anger was tempered by fatigue and lacked its usual fury. "I have been trying! It's really hard! And I have been making progress!"  
  
Dumbledore looked unfazed. "Yes, you have Draco. And everyone has noticed your improvement. Which is why we think you are ready to really start piecing your life back together."  
  
Malfoy allowed himself to calm, but didn't know what to say or how to respond; so he went with the old standard, "Fine."  
  
Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes twinkled with humor, and possibly affection. He reached into his robes to suddenly brandish a very old book. From its looks, it was being held together by sheer magic alone. He placed the book in Malfoy's bandaged hands. "Don't try to read it now, Draco. Wait until you find the attention it deserves. I think you might find some answers to your confusion."  
  
Malfoy looked at the heavy book in his hands. Its cover read, "A History of the Science of Magic," and its publishing date was 1437. It looked to be just about the driest and most boring read ever. "Uh. . . Thanks? I guess. . ."  
  
Dumbledore's smile widened, and Malfoy would have sworn the man was laughing on the inside. "Well, then, I will leave you to rest then. I'm sure you will recover quickly."  
  
Malfoy nodded and Dumbledore headed towards the door, though he stopped after only a couple meters to look back. "Oh, and Draco? If something like that happens again, you will not find me so lenient, so try not rage at any more skies, hmmm?"  
  
The young Slytherin was left thinking how insufferable Dumbledore was.  
  
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Malfoy stood in the Infirmary bathroom inspecting himself in the mirror. The broken capillaries had mostly healed, the bandages were off his hands and feet, and he had generally been restored to his previous appearance.  
  
He narrowed his eyes spitefully. "I hate you," he hissed at his reflection. "You're dirty and disgusting, and you are not my body." The mirror had stopped talking to him ever since his first visit to the infirmary in the beginning of the year, when he had attacked it (to the harm of both himself and the mirror) for telling him that he was beautiful.  
  
He turned his attention to his thin but firm arms, and traced his still partially numb fingers along the pale flesh there. The marks of loathing that he had clawed there over the summer were gone, and with them the passion with which he hated this strange body. It was his now, whomever it belonged to before, to do what he wanted with; nothing productive could come from destroying it. Though he did like the scar through his eyebrow from where he had dashed his head against the wall in an effort to get to the tortured mind within. He liked the scar because it marked the body as HIS.  
  
Finally, he looked back up at himself. His hair was dry and damaged, and jutted out in messily. He knew he had the ability to. . . well, change it, but it wasn't an ability he was willing to reveal. As far as he could tell, his hand only held a few good cards, and he was going to keep them hidden as long as possible. His old self had been. . . very adept at poker. The bitch of wizards' poker though, was that if you kept the same cards too long, they would unexpectedly change on you. The blond sneered at his reflection: Malfoy's cards had changed big time.  
  
He exited the bathroom on feeble legs. It had only been five days since the incident, but he was recovering well. He was a little wary of returning to the student population while still so weak, but he doubted anyone would give him too much shit after his display of power. A real smile finally made it to his thin lips.  
  
He was proud of what had happened. Yes, it was uncontrolled, he was out of control, he knew that, but he still had power, perhaps even greater power, if he could just master it. Everyone had considered the blowing up of the carriage a freak incident, probably caused by the incompetent use of magic by the more idiotic Slytherins that had been beating on him at the time; but now it was obvious that it had been Malfoy who was responsible. He felt better about himself, and more hopeful, than he had since his father had died.  
  
He went by his bed to pick up Dumbledore's book before leaving the Infirmary with a "Till next time" to Mme Pompfrey.  
  
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Harry had received a fair amount of shit from his Gryffindor housemates for risking his neck for the crazed ferret, but not too much; after all, it was widely accepted amongst that crowd that Harry saved people, that was what he did. Talk of Malfoy's feat, however, was rampant, and it grew with every retelling, despite the Trio having originally thought that there was little that could be added to make the event more impressive than it had actually been. Ah, but how wrong they were. By the time Malfoy was released from the Infirmary, legend had it that he had called in a hurricane from the Jet Stream, which proceeded to rain down deadly icicles, and that it was he who had produced the lightening that he then used to fire up at the sky. No one would be picking on Malfoy any time soon.  
  
In truth, Harry was a little relieved that this year his position as chief gossip magnet had been replaced. Never had so many people had so much to say about a Malfoy over such a short period of time since. . . Deralina Malfoy had held half the Ministry hostage (and periodically killing individual members) for two months in 1807.  
  
Malfoy was released in time for dinner on the fifth day, and he walked in without his characteristic haste and scowl (but with a shocking broom of hair). Harry suspected that the leisurely saunter was more an attempt to hide Malfoy's physical weakness than anything else, but it was reminiscent of the "old Malfoy". The brooding and inaccessible expression, however, was a new model. His lack of attention to those around him was as wide as the birth given to him. A school of students who had just weeks ago been badmouthing Malfoy and laughing at him behind his back, tripping him in the halls, and ganging up to beat him in abandoned classrooms now stayed well away.  
  
The Great Hall warily watched his entrance. At the Slytherin table, a few tentative expressions of esteem were directed towards the blond, then an applause spontaneously broke out. Malfoy looked a little surprised, but took it stride and nodded to his house, which thereby took another step towards recovery. Malfoy's abandonment of his position as their leader had put a great strain on the house's relationships, and cracks in house unity had become obvious, particularly between those whose families supported Voldemort and those whose didn't – it wasn't obvious to outsiders who was which side, but the Slytherins all knew. Malfoy, despite his father's affiliations, had always been the inspirational focal point around which his house's loyalty and pride centered. His radical change and rejection of them in the beginning of the year had been deeply repercussive blow; but Slytherins were good at adaptation, and they subconsciously yearned to reclaim Malfoy, so they unknowing jumped at any reason to rally their support. His leading the Slytherin Quidditch team to victory had been the first step towards reconciliation; the applause and endorsement of Malfoy and his recent display of terrifying power were the second.  
  
The other houses watched the display with mixed emotions and varying commentary before returning to their localized conversations. Hermione returned to detailing (or ranting, depending on the point of view) about what she had planned for her DA session scheduled for the day after the next. Apparently, and unsurprisingly, she was going to emphasize the importance of research and preparation. While Ron and Harry were forced to agree with her, neither one was looking forward that particular DA session. Hermione, on the other hand, had already figured out what she would have each member study based on how she thought their strengths could be best expanded.  
  
"Whatcha gonna spring on me?," Ron asked with no small amount of trepidation before shoving an entire half of a potato in his mouth.  
  
Hermione smile craftily. "What do YOU think you would most benefit from studying?"  
  
Ron actually took a moment to think about it (or to finish chewing, but everyone at the Gryffindor table was well aware of how unlikely the latter possibility was). Ron sounded a little upset when he finally answered, "Is this a trick question?  
  
"No," Hermione responded with a giggle. Even Harry managed to turn his attention away from the Slytherin table in order to smile in amusement. "Don't worry, Ron. I have the perfect thing for you. And, Merlin forbid, you may even find it interesting."  
  
"Yes, well, as you said, Merlin forbid," Ron retorted indignantly before shoveling some more food into his mouth. He was being even more piggy than usual, and there were pees, potato bits, bread crumbs, and Pumpkin juice splotches decorating entire the table cloth within a half meter radius of his plate.  
  
"Geez, Ron. Could you be any more disgusting?," Hermione asked disapprovingly.  
  
Ron pretended to look puzzled for a moment before deadpanning, "Yes." Then he lowered his head to his plate, grabbed a large chunk of steak with his teeth, then forcefully shook his head from side to side, spraying meat juice on Hermione and Harry, as well as everyone else in the vicinity.  
  
Harry took the splattering with a rolling of the eyes, and Neville just gave Ron a hurt look, but Ginny, Dean, and Hermione all shouted various obscenities. The two girls were particularly pissed off.  
  
"Ron, you shit!," Ginny accused, beating Hermione to any retaliation. She grabbed her glass of pumpkin juice and emptied it her brother's general direction. Harry grimaced as some of it splashed on to him too.  
  
In moments the two siblings were both standing, looking as if they were about to have a vicious go at each other. Hermione, despite her irritation at Ron, decided that she would really rather not have Gryffindor receive another round of detentions for petty in-house fighting, and pulled rank. There was, after all, some responsibility that came with being Head Girl.  
  
She stood up, and put on her highly effective voice of authority. "Ron, Ginny. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Both of you, stop, this is completely unacceptable behavior. Just look, the rest of the Hall is staring at your immature idiocy. Especially you, Ron. You're supposed to be a Prefect. Now, either finish eating or excuse yourself."  
  
She was right too, most of the rest of the Hall, and especially the rest of their house was watching in morbid amusement and distaste at the altercation. The professors too were eyeing them to see if an intervention would be necessary. But no; after one last glare, Ginny sat back down to finish, and Ron sulkily left (he really was too soaked and sticky to continue doing anything that didn't involve a shower).  
  
And so Hermione and Harry were left studying each other, friendlily but confrontationally, as if there was something on both of their minds regarding the other. .Hermione finally broke the silence. "I can see your interest in Malfoy. Your looks are anything but subtle; and, for once, anything but murderous. What do you think you're playing at?"  
  
Hermione's look, her entire personality, her perceptiveness – it all demanded honesty, so Harry dodn't even bother with anything but the truth. He leaned across the table so that he was only a decimeter from Hermione – to a stranger, it would have appeared to an intimate exchange. Harry smiled mischievously. "I want him on our side and this is our chance!"  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows skeptically, but wasn't surprised. "He needs a lot of work."  
  
They both leaned back somewhat and there was a beat before Harry responded persuasively, "That's why you're going to help me."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course. . . Ron'll throw a fit, which is reason enough to do it. . . but what makes you think Malfoy'll be game?"  
  
Harry shrugged; he looked over at the Slytherin table again, and this time his eyes were met by unreadable gray ones. "It's just a feeling."  
  
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The next day was Tuesday, November 15th. For those who had passed the required OWLs in potions, a double dose of Professor Snape was how Tuesdays kicked off. Hermione and Harry were the only Gryffindors in the class, surrounded almost exclusively by Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Hermione had dragged Harry to class early after breakfast, and Harry was pleased to see that, while most of the students still hadn't arrived, Mafloy was in his seat in the far corner; and, as luck would have it, he hadn't dozed off yet. Instead, he was scowling darkly at his homework scroll. It was an assignment Snape had given him to complete during his stay in the Infirmary, and it was the only assignment of any considerable length that he had managed (admittedly, with great difficulty) to complete the entire school year. As he half-heartedly reread it now, he was displeased by the number of times he had rambled off on some tangent, whose point was eventually forgotten and missed, only to yank the reader back to a discontinuous but more relevant topic. He let his head drop to the desk with a satisfying WHACK, then he intentionally repeated the move several more times: whack, whack, whack. . .  
  
"Hey there, Malfoy."  
  
Malfoy jerked his head up to glare reflexively at Harry, who had twisted around in the chair directly in front of him. "Potter," he monotoned, before flicking his eyes to take in Granger's presence – Hermione gave a big, shit-eating grin and wiggled her fingers gallingly at him. "What do you want?," he demanded rudely, already showing more restraint than had come to be expected of him.  
  
Harry continued on in a friendly and oblivious manner. "Absolutely nothing. Just a little 'hi there and hello' from me to you."  
  
"Don't be sordid," Malfoy responded grumpily, concedingly, as if banter was what Harry wanted and isolation what he would have preferred.  
  
"That's the spirit," Harry encouraged obnoxiously, his grin widening. Alas, it was more than Malfoy was willing to participate in, and the blond looked away. . . then down at his desk, from which his homework was unexpectedly absent.  
  
Hermione voice pierced his observation, "You know, Malfoy, there're some good ideas here. I could really help you with the presentation-"  
  
Malfoy jerked up from his seat and fiercely ripped his scroll from Granger's hands, tearing it in the process; then he sat down heavily as dizziness and a sudden headache hit him. Ignoring the two Gryffindors that were observing him with some mild concern, he balled up his scroll and threw it on the floor, then lowered his hurting head to the table, where he cradled it between his arms.  
  
Harry frowned; he had hoped persistence would make Malfoy come around, but nothing ever unfolded predictably when it came to the blond. Hermione reached down to the crumbled and torn scroll. She whispered two simple spells and, vois-la, it was as good as new. She leaned over and flattened it on Malfoy's desk, then she spoke soothingly, "Here. You should hand it in. It will make Professor Snape happy to see life in his favorite student."  
  
Malfoy raised his head slowly and looked at the scroll.  
  
"These two Gryffindorks giving you trouble, Malfoy?"  
  
Three heads turned to see Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Millicent Bulstrode (neither Crabbe nor Goyle had passed their potions OWL) standing before them and sporting hostile expressions. Malfoy's view of his housemates was not as black and white as it had been on that day at Platform 9 ¾ when he had so viciously told them to fuck off. Reason had it that they were children, not death eaters; they were conflicted, not evil; and that they needed leadership and choices, not distain and fear. Malfoy turned his eyes from his fellow Slytherins to the Gryffindor two. They wanted to help; and, unlike his housemates, who (however misguided) looked to him for guidance, they were more of peers. Malfoy was repeatedly being pleasantly surprised to find that the rusty cogs in his brain were actually capable of reasonable thought, particularly in the absence of the rage and its aggravating distraction. He actually found himself seriously considering seeking help from the Potter and Granger.  
  
"No trouble at all," Malfoy stated, sounding very much like his old imperious self. "Pansy, if you'd care to be my partner. . ."  
  
Pansy looked like a kitten who had just caught a canary that far outsized itself; she eagerly sat down beside the Slytherin idol and promptly proceeded to ignore the Gryffindors. Seconds later, Snape billowed in looking particularly vindictive.  
  
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Hermione's DA session came and went. Ron had had to grudgingly admit that the book assigned to him, "Tactics on the Battlefield", had in fact been a riveting read; indeed, most of the students had been agreeably surprised by and interested in the topics Hermione had picked for them. Harry himself had reluctantly found himself intrigued by the infinitely relevant "The Psychology of Wizards Under Extreme Stress". It was validating to read that his recently stunted emotional arsenal and the distance he felt from his friends, and from people in general, were the normal protective reactions to the death of someone close (which he had been doing an eerily good job of not thinking about), and of living under threat. Unfortunately, without more detailed knowledge of what had happened, all Harry could extrapolate from the book about Malfoy was that something life and mind altering had, in fact, taken place. Still, he did feel better equipped to attempt understanding. 


	11. The Goings On of Wednesday Evening

Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling is God, and therefore owns all, including my story, my fans, and my soul.  
  
To my Reviewers: Particular thanks to MISS LESLEY. I appreciate some good constructive criticism. Though it is hard to read, it makes me rethink my story to accommodate the valid opinions of my readers. Also, thanks go out to CURIOUSDREAMWEAVER for consistently reviewing. Kudos to you for having the consideration to show your appreciation and interest.  
  
Ch.11: The Goings On of Wednesday Evening  
  
Wednesday evening brought 'Remedial Potions' with the ever-lovely Professor Snape. Unfortunately, Harry had recently become unable to enter the Potions classroom without his thoughts flickering to the ever-volatile and unpredictable Draco Malfoy. Unbeknownst to him, the greasy potions professor's mind had been lingering on similar topics.  
  
"Ah, Potter," Snape condescended without even looking up from the papers he was marking. "Late as always."  
  
Harry really wanted to retort, Maybe according to Snape-time. The time on his own watch was testament to at least relative punctuality. He settled for a bland, "Sorry, sir. It took a full minute longer than expected to reach the dungeons."  
  
Snape straightened his students' papers and vigorously stacked them on the desk before finally looking up at Harry with a calculating glare. He shot up from his desk and glided around it so that he could leane while continuing, "Well, Potter, we don't have all day. Prepare yourself."  
  
There was about five seconds in which Harry tried to steel his mind and will before Snape launched himself, "Legimens!"  
  
Harry was vaguely aware of his body stumbling back, but the forced speeding of his mind by far dominated his attention. He flashed through images of Malfoy's tempest, of quidditch practice with Ron, of studying with Hermione; of visiting St. Mungo's when Ron was hospitalized for Dragon Pox; of the Dursley's callous treatment; of being alone in Dudley's old room, crying for Sirius; of Sirius, stumbling through the curtain in the room of mysteries, of Harry's rage and terror, striking out at that Bellatrix bitch with Cruciatus . . .  
  
For Harry, they were just achingly real flashes of the past, but he knew that Snape was getting the full tour of his memories, of his confusion, his suffering, his grief, his agony. . . Everything was sped up for the mind invader, requiring the invaded to be able to react far more quickly. Harry struggled to get his baring, to tap into those powerful feelings, then suddenly, Harry found himself able to use that fury and horror to push Snape out of his mind, to fuel his own unintended invasion. . .  
  
There was a flash of Malfoy saying, "No, I don't want any help," then fleeing the room; then of Snape angrily teaching a group of third years; then long stretches of mourning and regretting; then of pain and agony and guilt as his accepted the Dark Lord's punishment; then an incomprehensibly intentional fade into a memory that had been haunting him since the start of the school year: the last time he saw the real Narcissa Black . . .  
  
She was young and beautiful and frightened and still full of life. They were meeting in an abandoned classroom, and Harry instinctively knew that both were in their seventh year at Hogwarts.  
  
"Severus," her voice was strained with pain, and her breathing was heavy. Severus placed an arm around her shoulders, his heart heavy with concern and. . . love. It mattered not that she was arranged to be married to someone else.  
  
"What happened?," Severus asked apprehensively, almost soothingly.  
  
Naricissa looked panicked for a moment before a determined resignation took over. "Mr. Malfoy – Marlin Malfoy, I mean – he's. . . my father," she managed.  
  
"What!?," Severus demanded, mind suddenly reeling, incredulous and viscous at the same time. Was she lying, playing at something? Or was it true? Either way, what were the implications? Things were so complicated in Slytherin, trust so fragile. . .  
  
"He had an affair with my mother. Father doesn't know, oh Merlin. . ." Narcissa looked on the brink of tears and the expression she directed at Severus was thick with desperation and pleading.  
  
"Who told you these lies?," Severus asked angrily. But he wasn't sure that they were lies – none of Narcissa's sibling were blond and blue-eyed: Bellatrix had mousy brown hair and wild green eyes like many other Blacks.  
  
Tears finally sprung forth and Narcissa sobbed, "Lucius! I didn't believe him, so I asked my mother, and she said it is true!"  
  
It had been on the edge of his mind, but only then did the implications hit him. "No! They knew, they knew!"  
  
Narcissa buried her face in his shoulder. "They did!," she cried hysterically, though her voice was muffled by his clothes. "Mr. Malfoy has some insane idea about keeping the Malfoy blood line pure, but its crazy! It's wrong! I have never liked Lucius, but this is too much!"  
  
"And your mother allowed this to happen?," Severus growled.  
  
Several more sobs racked Narcissa's body. "She tried to fight against it, but father is determined, and she can't tell him the real reason!"  
  
"You can't let this marriage happen!," Severus demanded, not even caring that he was able to find hope for himself in her predicament.  
  
The delicate blonde quieted and stilled, then looked up through mascara smears. Her features gradually hardened as she retreated into her Slytherin shell. Then she suddenly stood and wiped her angry eyes. "Something will be done about this!"  
  
Then she stalked out the door. She would never have an intimate conversation with Severus Snape again. . .  
  
Harry felt himself reeling nauseatingly. He stumbled backwards and to the ground, and grabbed his head in a vain effort to stop the spinning. Large inhalations eventually allowed him to focus on the dark and imposing figure of Professor Snape looking down at him with almost murderous expression contorting his face. A bony hand shot out and delivered a sharp slap, and Harry's head snapped back with a gasp.  
  
"Control yourself better next time, Potter!," Snape growled dangerously. "If that had been the mind of someone untrained, you could have gotten lost in their mind; as you certainly don't seem capable of pulling out yourself!"  
  
The entire excursion into each other's minds had only lasted forty minutes, and most sessions with Snape usually lasted an hour to an hour and a half. Then again, most sessions didn't involve an unintended trip into the potions professor's twisted mind and tortured memories.  
  
"However," Snape continued with a ragged breath. "This incident is not entirely your fault. So let this be a lesson to you that even an experienced Occlumens can easily find himself out of control when distracted. Now leave." Snape marched back to his desk and began to intensely study the papers there. Harry took a moment or two to gather himself, then fled without a word, welcoming the opportunity to digest this new knowledge in peace.  
  
While Harry was otherwise engaged with Snape, Hermione had gone to her favorite locality – the library. She greeted Madam Pince quietly then headed for her habitual seat. On impulse, however, she stopped about a meter from her destination and turned around. She backtracked several steps and plopped herself across the table from Malfoy – who appeared to be absently doodling on a library book. He stopped for a moment to blink at her owlishly, then returned to his . . . was that a sketch of Voldemort in Bowie getup?  
  
"Nice hair, Malfoy," Hermione voiced after a short silence.  
  
It did look stunning. In an attempt to reconcile with the members of his house, he had allowed Parkinson to do something about his fried hair – she had twisted the blond strands into seven Celtic-style corn rows, tying each row off at the nape of the neck. [A/N: reference Mordred's 'do in Mists of Avalon; not braids, twists.] All he needed was some face paint and he would have looked like one of his ancient, Roman Empire fighting ancestors (from the druidic side, not the French side).  
  
Malfoy looked up to make sure she wasn't insulting him, then lazily commanded, "Go away, Granger."  
  
Hermione paid him no mind and retrieved some books from her satchel – specifically, her Arithmancy textbook, which, if she was not mistaken, was the subject of most of the books Malfoy had uselessly splayed before him. She got to work while Malfoy studiously ignored her; after several minutes, however, she began mumbling. "47 plus 10 plus 51 is 108, divided by the moon cycle, which is 3, bringing the total to 36. So 36 is the relevant inflection, 36, 36. . ."  
  
She was now running her finger down the table providing interpretations for such numbers. Malfoy's ability to ignore distractions had been severely limited in recent months, and Granger's mumblings were no exception. He found himself listening to her ramblings and vaguely understanding her calculations, and his eyes flickered to the abandoned Arithmancy textbook next to him. It was suddenly easier to follow her voice and logic than it was to ignore her, and he further found himself wanting to take advantage of this. He knew that Granger was too smart to be doing it unintentionally, but it didn't matter; he appreciated her pretense and he jumped at the opportunity to finally be able to compete some homework. He really did want to do well in his classes, and though he knew that Granger was well aware of what he was doing, he inconspicuously grabbed his quill and pulled his textbook closer.  
  
And so the evening waned and work was completed by both parties. Malfoy was noticeably pleased by having actually been able to complete his assignment, and Granger felt a sense of accomplishment for having been able to aid arguably one of the greatest minds in the student body (though second, surely, to herself).  
  
By 9 pm, Hermione had finished most of her work, and had already spent more than her usual amount of time studying in the library; so she shut her book with a vigorous THWAP. Malfoy looked up from his scribbling and eye contact was made for a weighty moment. The brilliant muggle-born looked on the verge of saying something, but Malfoy had been thinking too, and he wanted to forestall any conclusions or offers she was jumping to.  
  
"Look, I don't care if you're a mudblood or not-" Predictably, Hermione tried to protest, but Malfoy barreled on. "I know, you don't believe me because me using the term is proof enough that I think that way. But it's not true. A label only has as much power as it is given. Malfoy, mudblood, they are just labels, they don't really say anything about who we are.  
  
"But the point I'm trying to get at here is that I don't have a problem with you, or the glorious Potter for that matter. And I know you expect that I will eventually accept your offer to join your side because it seems like I have so little fall back on, while Potter and his posse are the fucking sun in the sky. But I don't agree with your assessment. From my point of view, there is no reason to trust you lot, or to want to align myself with you. You have to earn my trust and convince me of YOUR worthiness. I'm not going to fight on your side just because I'm not on Voldemort's side."  
  
Again Hermione tried to interrupt, looking a little outraged by his words, but there was still no stopping Malfoy. "I am not who I used to be, Granger, really. I am not that cruel and contemptible Malfoy from previous years. I understand if you cannot see past the same face that he wore, but I refuse to start from the assumption that I am that same person. You don't get my allegiance just because I used to be a shit and have to make up for it. And while I don't deny that I could use your help, I don't need it.  
  
"I am putting myself back together. If that doesn't seem to be the case, it is only because I have had so far to go; but I have plenty to fall back on. I am intelligent and powerful, and the leader of a strong if fractured house. All I have to do now is mobilize these resources; and if all you can offer me is support in these endeavors in exchange for my alliance, well, I have faith in my own ability to adapt and overcome. That is, after all, what us Slytherins are know for. I have a responsibility to them that I must fulfill before I can even consider palling around with you lot."  
  
By the time Malfoy's speech came to an end, he was almost smiling (he was rather proud of his own coherence), and Hermione was uniquely speechless. This was the more than she had ever heard come from Malfoy's mouth in all the previous years combined. She didn't understand everything that had been implied, but she appreciated the gist of the argument (and the fact that it was directed at Harry as much as it was directed at her) and for once didn't know how to reply. Still, it was not a speech Malfoy would have made in previous years, and the improvement in his attitude was obvious enough for her not to relinquish her optimistic determination with regards to the Malfoy Cause. So she nodded and opted for a simple reply, "Sure Malfoy."  
  
She gathered her things and deposited them in her book bag. Malfoy had returned his attention to his scroll by the time she stood up to leave. Though Malfoy didn't see it, she smirked as she left. "See you tomorrow Malfoy."  
  
Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room to an exhausted Harry and a hyper-active Ron. The latter was excitedly playing wizards chess with some unsuspecting second year who was losing tragically. Harry was slumped over in a chair nursing an on-coming migraine. Hermione used Ron's preoccupation to update Harry on Operation Malfoy. He listened with interest, but was obviously preoccupied. He didn't even know why he was so interested in the Malfoy issue. Sure, the lithe Slytherin had always been his rival and had always played a significant role in his life, but this role change was unnerving.  
  
He wanted Malfoy as an ally; but why did he care? Surely it was not just because of the undisciplined and freakish display of power on the quidditch pitch. . . or was it? And how was he supposed to react to this new knowledge? Even if he still had his previous relationship with Malfoy, he didn't think he would be able to use this against him; it was too horrible. Did Malfoy even know that he was a product of gross incest? Were his genes the reason for his mental instability? But that didn't make sense, something must have happened over the summer; crazy genes don't just activate like that. . . do they? What the FUCK was going on? Harry felt even less certain about events than ever, but his thoughts just kept on coming back around to Malfoy. Malfoy's pointy, pale, inbred face; Malfoy's wild and erratic behavior, Malfoy looking confused and desperate, Malfoy bringing the sky down upon him; Malfoy being beaten to a pulp, being fried to a crisp; Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. . . his eyes, his anger; his hair, his hate; his fingers, his frailty; his skin, his insanity; his body, his pain, his passion. . .  
  
Harry rubbed his temples. Hermione was staring at him worriedly. He gave her a weak smile, then decided to head up to his dorm room. He was tired and wanted to go to bed, and still had to meditate to clear his mind for sleep. He gave his good-nights and retired, leaving both Ron and Hermione curious and concerned.  
  
Malfoy struggled with his DADA assignment for a good solitary hour before finally deciding to return to his own common room. As usual, his entrance was met with the attention of most of Slytherin; the interest, as of late however, was becoming decreasingly hostile and increasingly hopeful. As Malfoy stood by the door and cautiously observed them observing him, he made a spur of the moment decision.  
  
Instead of quickly disappearing into his dorm room, he strode into the center of the common room to glare at the seventh year who was occupying the coveted armchair in front of the fire. For a split second the seventh year – Derek Vilborne, was it? – looked as though he wouldn't move, but a moment later Malfoy felt a heavy, familiar presence at his back and he lazily looked from side to side to see his trusty bodyguards smiling shyly (ug, was it even possible?) at him. Malfoy smirked and turned back to the seventh year who was rapidly scrambling from the chair. Malfoy looked wickedly pleased as he then promptly settled in the vacancy. Crabbe and Goyle took their positions on the floor on either side of the chair, and Malfoy noticed that many of the room's occupants looked subtly pleased by this development.  
  
"It's good to have you back, Malfoy," Goyle grumbled, not seeming at all concerned about Malfoy's recent hiatus from sanity and previous behavior. Crabbe grunted his agreement with his friend.  
  
"It's good to be back," Malfoy said casually, though he wasn't sure if things could ever really go back to the way they were – he knew he would never be who he had been, but that wasn't to discount the possibility of molding the old order into something new. He caught sight of Parkinson as she entered the common room, noticed him, then grinned. There was a disgustingly un-Slytherin display of contentment and relief for the rest of the evening.  
  
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Okay, everybody, please review! Tell me how you think things should progress! I have a vague story line in mind, but I am certainly willing to incorporate good ideas (as this chapter is an attempt to do). For those of you who are impatient, sorry it is taking so long to get to the slashy goodness, but I promise that it is coming. If you have read my other HP story, you know I am not promising something I won't deliver. I just need to get things there. No premature. . . well, nothing premature anyway. =-) 


	12. When Old Behavior and New Times Collide

Disclaimer: The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money, that's what I want. . . Your love gives me such a thrill, but your love won't pay my bills. . . Money don't get everything it's true, but what it don't get I can't use. . . Give me your money, just give me money. ("Flying Lizzards", but possibly not originally.) Alas, I am making no money, though I just had a job interview that went well, perhaps I will be making money soon. Just not from indulging my perversities through creative writing.

Ch. 12: When Old Behavior and New Times Collide

Both Hermione and Harry watched with interest the next morning when Malfoy strode in to the Great Hall with Parkinson at his side and flanked by two rather pleased looked bodyguards. The group proceeded to set up court in the center of the Slytherin table. Though a number of the snakes still looked wary and uneasy, the house hadn't seemed so much like. . ., well, their normal, happily wicked selves in almost two months now.

Hermione gave Harry a look. "I hate to say it, but I think that bout of electroshock therapy really did the git some good."

Ron, who was sitting across the table from his two friends, his back to the Slytherin table, asked after a moment, "So are you going to explain L-ectro shock therapy to us ignorant of muggle ways?"

Hermione gave her explanation, which left Ron looking thoroughly horrified. "That's. . . that's barbarous. That's exactly the kind of shit that will drive people to become Death Eaters."

Both Hermione and Harry looked a little taken back by his comment, though it wasn't too difficult to recognize the validity of his argument. It just wasn't one that would have jumped to the mind of anyone raised by muggles. Hermione finally responded by saying, "Yeah, well, history is full of behavior that can only be chalked up to ignorance."

Ron's reply was stalled by his need to swallow, so Harry took the relay baton. "Yeah, but you should see what kind of damage we can inflict with only a little bit of knowledge."

Again, it was not a truth that would come naturally to Hermione, but she was willing to concede to it's validity. "Fair enough. So, shall we just admit that ignorance is bliss and give up on progress all together?"

Ron and Harry smiled at her sarcasm. The latter let his attention wander (what were the Slytherins smirking at over there?) a bit while Ron and Hermione engaged in a bit of passive aggressive (and barely recognizable) flirtation. Eventually, his realized that he had forgotten his DADA homework in his dorm room, so he made his excuses to his friends and got up to leave.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy was letting his housemate's dominate the conversation. He really didn't have anything so say (which would certainly have been uncharacteristic of his old self), but the Slytherins seemed content enough with his cooperative presence. He couldn't have known, as he hadn't been paying attention is over a month and a half, but the house tension was the lowest it had been since the academic year had begun.

An idea came to mind, and (as was newly characteristic of Malfoy) he impulsively voiced it. "We should have a party. . . it's been a while."

Immoral and lascivious grins suddenly lit up the table. It had been a while, as the debacle at the beginning of the year had offset the opportunity for the usual back to school party; and if there was one thing that the Slytherin knew how to do, it was how to have a REALLY good time.

Once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't saying anything else, the Slytherins took the idea and ran with it, eagerly brainstorming and assigning responsibilities. Malfoy's thoughts were following their own track, eventually resulting in his thoughtless utterance, "We should invite members of other houses."

It was only at the incredulous and slightly betrayed looks of his fellow Slytherins that Malfoy realized that his suggestion might not be the most acceptable by their standards. He mind quickly reeled over both his own logic behind the idea and any logic that might appeal to his housemates.

"Networking," he blurted out. "As long as we stay true to our own interests, it can only help to have friends in high places from all houses and on. . . both sides."

The sixth years – the most loyal to Malfoy – seemed willing to accept his reasoning. Some of the seventh and fifth years looked a little certain, especially that. . . Derek Vilborne character. He was tall and broad – too big to have been selected for quidditch (and that was saying a lot, considering the presence of Crabbe and Goyle as beaters) – and he leaned over Goyle to hiss down the table at the Slytherin Prince. "Those sound like the words of a traitor. . . or a coward. Is that it Malfoy, too afraid to choose sides? Your father would be-"

He wasn't given the opportunity to finish his words, as Malfoy had (despite still being somewhat weakened) inelegantly scrambled over Parkinson and Goyle tackle the huge Slytherin in a sudden uprising of rage. He was screaming barely understandable obscenities; and while it took Vilborne a moment to react, Malfoy was probably spared a rather harsh beating by Parkinson and Crabbe, who grabbed either arm to haul him off of the giant seventh year, and by Goyle who simultaneously and instinctually acted to protect the boy he had admired and protected for years by hammering his own meaty fist into Vilborne's vicious face.

The fight didn't even last a full minute before their head of house was at the scene demanding poisonously, "Just what do you think is going on here?! I could have sworn we had a protracted and very clear conversation about the consequences of such behavior only a few weeks ago! Your behavior is of course no surprise, Mr. Malfoy, but the rest of you-"

Parkinson rather audaciously dared to interrupt and pointed accusingly at Vilborne, "It wasn't Draco's fault! It was him!"

Snape glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who were nodding vigorously, then at Bulstrode, Blaise, Nott, and several of the other Slytherins, who all began nodding too (though less certainty). Finally, he looked at Malfoy, who was panting heavily and clearly trying to get his emotions under control.

"Very well. Vilborne! Twenty points from Slytherin and three evenings of detention for you." Snape spared a moment to glare at them all, especially Malfoy, then stalked wrathfully back to the teachers' table.

Malfoy couldn't help but feel a rush of vindictive pleasure, and a physiologically familiar smirk made its way unbidden to his face. Then an abrupt recognition of old feelings and old behavior made him feel suddenly ill, and he blanched noticeably.

"Are you okay?," Parkinson asked supportively, taking hold of his arm.

Malfoy nodded weakly, then tried to mask his emotions as he looked around his watchful. . . followers. Fucking Merlin, he was going to spew. He hadn't really considered that attempting to reintegrate into his Slytherin posse would require a certain resumption of past behavior, and the sudden realization was staggering. He didn't want to go back to doing what he had done, to being who he had been – he would rather die.

He managed to keep his act together by sheer force of will. "I'm fine. . . I didn't want that to happen. I've just been. . . on a short fuse lately. I'm going outside to get some fresh air."

Crabbe and Goyle made to follow him, but he gestured for them to stay. He knew for past experience that the two would stand by him against anything short of him attacking their persons, but (unlike his earlier persona) Malfoy really did want to be ALONE alone; and the Slytherins knew, for their part, that – old Malfoy or new Malfoy – he wouldn't react kindly to any of his gang forcing their presence on him.

Unfortunately, Gryffindors didn't suffer from the same compulsion. Harry, who had halted his departure to watch the unmistakable developments at the Slytherin table, was standing by the exit of the Great Hall when Malfoy hurried by. It wasn't hard for him to inconspicuously follow, and quickly found himself outside looking from side to side for a sign of the blond. It took a moment, but there he was, leaning his forehead and palms heavily against the dark stone of the castle wall, and his rib cage heaving heavily.

Harry approached slowly, cautiously, as one would a spooked animal, and for a moment he could make out Malfoy's mumbled words, "I'm not him, not him. I have a choice. . ."

Then he fell to his knees and wretched up his breakfast. Harry allowed a disgusted expression to screw up his face. "Malfoy. . ."

Malfoy jerked back and fell on his ass; he tried to scramble to his feet, but his arms shook too much, so he buried his head between his drawn up knees instead. "Don't call. . ."

Breathe, breathe, breathe, get yourself together.

Listening to Malfoy's forced inhalations, Harry felt bad about interrupting his moment of weakness, and sat down next to Malfoy (but as far away from the puke as he could), tentatively placing a rough hand on the thin shoulder. It tensed, but Malfoy didn't pull away; instead, he looked up, revealing a slightly sick looking pallor and two distrusting eyes.

"What do you want, Potter?," he rasped irritably. "I won't bargain away allegiance, as I've already told Granger. Now that father is dead, I get to be loyal to me," he continued with emphasis, then looked away into the distance.

Harry nodded guiltily, his dark hair falling messily over his eyes. He knew what it was like to be a pawn, to have his "side" chosen for him, to feel as if his whole life had been laid out before him by someone else. Harry stood and looked down at the pale scalp that could be seen peaking out between blond rows of hair. He felt unwanted pangs of empathy and sympathy and extended a hand to Malfoy. "Well, let me help you up at least. No strings attached, I swear."

It was a thin attempt at a joke, but after gazing appraisingly at Harry, then at his hand, for a moment, Malfoy revealed a rare (if faint) smile. If Potter was offering his hand to him, for whatever reason, maybe he could trust that he really wasn't the bastard he used to be. He took the proffered hand and let the Boy-Who-Lived help him up.

For his part, Harry could sense the strain and weakness of Malfoy's muscles through his grip, as he could tell how light Malfoy was by how easy it was to pull him up. Malfoy released his hand quickly, though he reached his other arm out to steady himself on the castle wall. Harry's hand found itself tingling regretfully at the loss of contact, and his lips found themselves wanting to respond to Malfoy's smile. In fact, he had to fight back the irrational urge to grin widely.

"What are you looking at?," Malfoy asked nervously.

Harry's mind felt blank, but he forced himself to grasp for an answer that wasn't "you."

"If you don't want to go by Malfoy, what should I call you? Draco?" Uh, where did that come from?

Malfoy looked sharply at him to see if he was making fun of him, but the green eyes seemed earnest. "I don't know," he finally responded tiredly. "Both Malfoy and Draco are gone, the name don't mean anything anymore. And there are no names left for me."

Harry couldn't help feeling that there was some logic to Malfoy's ramblings, something besides madness, but the puzzle pieces just weren't coming together. "Well, do you have a middle name?," he asked helpfully.

Malfoy snorted distainfully, before answering vehemently,. "Yes. Lucius. But there's no way I'll ever answer to that bastard's name!"

Harry studied Malfoy sadly, inexplicably wishing he could ease the other boy's anger and pain. "What about your initials? D.M.?"

Malfoy looked pensive for a moment. D.M. It retained parts of both Draco and Malfoy, who (though he hated to admit it) were part of whatever he was. D.M., like Diem, the day. Carped Diem. Seize the day. Malfoy smiled faintly at the little rush of pleasure and self-love that came from suddenly being able to label himself that way. It made sense really; as thinking of himself as Malfoy filled him with fear and self-hatred, while thinking of himself as Draco filled him with grief. DM, Diem – it was a name that filled him with hope.

He abruptly turned to Harry, finally releasing himself from the wall's support, and, in a impulsive flush of gratitude and benevolence, said,. "Thank you, Harry. You're the first one who has asked me what I wanted to be called. And I like your idea I doubt my recently reacquired and still tenuous claim to sanity could survive me trying to convince everyone to call me anything besides Malfoy, but it doesn't matter as long as I don't have to think of myself that way."

There was a long, awkward moment of staring searchingly into each other's eyes and faces. DM reluctantly found himself wanting to trust the persistent Gryffindor, and Harry Potter found himself wanting to lean in closer. . . to smell the ivory flesh and feel the breath from enticing lips. . .

Harry jerked back suddenly. What the hell?!

DM looked a little startled, but not offended. Had he not noticed? (No, apparently not.)

"Come on," Harry managed hoarsely. "We're late for class already."

DM nodded and appeared to shake off his nausea and weakness as they re-entered the castle; Harry was expending quite a bit of energy trying to ignore the blond and to not think about his own sudden lapse of sanity. They had not gotten very far before DM stopped abruptly and stated, "I'm not up for this shit right now, I'm skipping."

He immediately turned down a hallway leading to the dungeons, leaving Harry to quash the desire to follow. "See you later!," he called, but there was no reply.

DM lay in bed trying to sort out his thoughts. While the Potter issue certainly deserved some pondering, and the whole Diem thing probably should receive more analysis than he was willing to give, the real problem that occupied his thoughts were the Slytherins.

He wanted their support, and for the most part they wanted his leadership; but it wasn't that simple. While he could count on the loyalty of most of the sixth year Slytherins, the other classes were less certain – and of those classes, the fifth and seventh years were of particular concern. He knew exactly which ones supported Voldemort; he even knew that two of the seventh years were already marked Death Eaters. He was safe for the moment, as there was no way for Voldemort to send messages to Hogwarts without a high risk of interception by Dumbledore's crowd; but after the winter holidays, there would be at least two – and probably more – Slytherins returning with orders to kill one Draco Malfoy. Time was running out. . . to do what?

He hadn't been thinking much until recently, he had been feeling: feeling angry, hurt, frustrated, desperate, impulsive, and out of control. . . But now ideas were coalescing more readily, concentration was not so fleeting, and thoughts on the future were manifesting. He knew he had to neutralize the threat, which was going to require two processes: on one hand, he would have to orchestrate a change in the direction that he had been pushing the Slytherin house for five years; on the other hand, just as there had been some Slytherins couldn't be previously swayed to Voldemort's views, there would be some students who couldn't be dissuaded from them now. These were the students that would have to be neutralized in a different, more serious way. Both groups would require sensitive manipulation.

DM groaned and rubbed his temples vigorously. He was just going to have to face the fact that though it was his Malfoy persona that had been placed in Slytherin, he had inherited the house and its most Slytherin environment. Returning to previous behavior – to an extent – would be necessary just to maneuver in such a medium. He wondered briefly if it would be easier if he was in Gryffindor, and his mind flickered to Potter and Granger for a moment.

Elsewhere in the castle, Harry was sitting in DADA not paying any attention at all (Granger was there too, but she was paying avid attention). His mind was fluttering about, as though slowing down long enough to focus on one topic would inevitably permit the invasion of unwelcome thoughts. Well, they weren't entirely unwelcome, more like unnerving; and the prospect of investigating them made him feel jittery and excited, and made his stomach clench fretfully. He wasn't thick about such matters – he was, after all, a sixteen year old boy – so he was pretty sure he knew how to interpret such symptoms.

Still, he told himself that he couldn't afford to indulge his infatuation (if it could even be called that; really it was just an interest), then proceeded to convince himself with the following reasons: firstly, it was only a mild and transitory infatuation (interest!) on his part, not unlike his whatever with Cho, and involved neither strong emotion or even any real element of attraction (supporting evidence: sixteen year old boy!); secondly, Malfoy was neither interested nor in any position (or condition) to indulge Harry's infatuation (interest!).

Thirdly, Malfoy was an unpleasant, crazy, scrawny little shit. Not even attractive. Too pale, too thin, too pointy, too . . . Okay, so Harry didn't have as much success convincing himself of the last point, but it didn't matter, because point number four suffocated all the others: Harry really really had more important things to focus his on, like training DA, and occlumency, and the War, and Voldemort, and Fudge, and Sirius' death. . . all the stresses of his life that demanded attention, the list of which went on and on. A couple minutes of thinking on these traumatic topics and Malfoy was long forgotten. Indeed, by the end of an uneventful class, Harry had done quite a mental number on his so called interest, and had succeeded in scaring himself away from the anything to do with the blond Slytherin. For the time being anyway.

Since the lightening incident, DM had actually managed to avoid getting a detention every day of the week. Skipping DADA, however, had earned him a detention, and so it was not until 12:40 that he made it back to the common room, to be greeted by the sight of Pansy Parkinson asleep on the couch. He allowed a tired smile to make its way to his lips – he liked Pansy; it wasn't her fault that she was the pawn of her parents, that they were betrothed, and that he too had used her. He felt guilty for turning on her – and on Vince and Greg too. They were close friends of his Malfoy persona, but that wasn't reason enough for abandoning and hurting them.

He carefully sat down next to her and gently ran his fingers through her thick golden locks. After a couple of silent minutes, she began to stir and eventually blinked lazily up at him.

"Draco," she purred sleepily. He smiled down at her. "I've been waiting up for you."

"Waiting? Is that what you were doing so unconsciously?," he teased gently.

Pansy sat up, crawled onto his lap to straddle him, then gave him a long, forceful hug. DM allowed it, even allowed himself to enjoy the feel of human touch. The only physical contact he had had since the summer started had been in the form of violence or medical attention. A little affection directed at him – even if it wasn't directed at the real him – did miracles to sooth the pain in his soul.

"I've missed you so much," Pansy murmured into his neck.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," DM whispered back.

Pansy let go of him and leaned back to look at him. She had an odd expression on her face and DM realized that his apology was out of character.

Parkinson didn't know what to make of the new, unpredictable Malfoy. She had spent her childhood being trained to be the obedient wife, then she had spent years trying to be everything her intended wanted; now she didn't know what her role was. Still, she hadn't been put in Slytherin for no reason – it was time to test the water.

She slid down him so that she kneeled down between his legs. His eyes went wide and lips twitched distastefully, but she didn't see it: her hands were finding their way under his shirt and she was rubbing her mouth and face against his crotch.

DM was on his feet in a split second, Pansy's arm in a vice-like grip, holding her up on her knees; she cried out more in surprise and fear than in pain, and a long moment passed in which they stared uneasily into each other's faces. Finally, DM released Pansy to collapse to the carpeted floor, and backed up to drop onto the couch.

He didn't feel nauseous this time, but it had been a thrill of horror and panic that had prompted his abrupt actions. He was well aware of the power games he (no, not him! Malfoy!) had played with Pansy, and others, in the past, and that was one activity to which he would not return. His body had been the vehicle of much pain, and had used sex as a weapon, and such memories now elicited fear and self-hatred and guilt, and he would not be part of that ever again! No more hurting people! Not like that! Not cruelly, purposefully, maliciously. . . not through sex, not through torture, not with slow deaths. . .

DM rubbed his eyes for the millionth time that day, and took a steadying breath to push back the memories that had been haunting him for months, memories that were not his, but that he was only now being able to resist.

"Panse. I'm sorry for scaring you, and I don't want to hurt you, but I can't do that. That's not who I am anymore."

Pansy nodded warily. She had known going in that he might not react well to attempt, but it still hurt, and it made her afraid for her future. "Are you still going to honor our engagement?," she asked in a warbling voice and a purposely (yet still authentically) pathetic expression.

Again, they looked at each other studiously, then DM nodded. "If, when the time comes, and you are in full possession of all the facts, and you still want to get married, then I will marry you." Pansy smiled brightly with relief. "But, Panse, I'll never be someone I'm not, and who I am may not be who you want me to be."

Pansy actually looked as if she was about to cry as she threw herself into another embrace. "I don't care who you are," she sniffled. "You'll always be Draco Malfoy to me."

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Well, that was a long chapter! So you should reward me with reviews! I know the story is dragging on a bit, it's just that I don't feel I can proceed until I flesh out the characters and their relationships with each other.

Poll question: How should I make the War manifest? I know I have neglected that part of the story, and I need to play some catch up there. I have some ideas about the final stages of the War, but what to do now? Terrorist-like attacks to create fear? (It's a good idea, but it has been done an awful lot. . .)


	13. Invitations and Preparations

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter and all the characters in the HP universe are the sole property of the goddess and rich bitch JK Rowling. Only vindictiveness could motivate any attempts to sue my sorry ass.

Reviewers: Thank you! Both of you! I love you! I had another job interview that went well. Cross your fingers for me! $20/hr! But only 8 hrs/week! Still, I have meager expenses, and this would give me time to write my great American novel! (Har har)

Ch. 13: Invitations and Preparations

Harry did such a good job of convincing himself of the importance of focusing on the War (as opposed to Malfoy) that he almost immediately went into overdrive. Friday morning breakfast conversation with Ron and Hermione consisted almost entirely of pumping the latter for details about recent disappearances (Hermione, unlike most students, actually bothered to study the Daily Prophet). It only required a short while of questioning for it to become apparent that the greater impact on society was coming from Minster Fudge's reactionary measures. In the name of security: curfews had been issued; bans had placed on a number of multipurpose curses, potions, and magical items; a rash of not entirely justified arrests had taken place; a number of civil rights had been revoked; and the death penalty had been reinstated (since the Dementors had left Azkaban to side with Voldemort).

"Do you think Fudge is working for You-Know-Who?," Ron asked nervously; Harry was wondering the same thing.

Hermione shook her head. "No. But I do think that he may be the bigger threat He's using Voldemort as the excuse to declare martial law and become dictator. It sounds far fetched, and it will be a while before it comes to that, but there is certainly precedence to this pattern. Just look at Bush in the US."

"Who? What bush?," Ron asked bewilderedly.

"He's the corrupt and backward president of the United States," Harry explained offhandedly, his mind occupied by the Fudge matter. "So what you're saying is that even if we defeat Voldemort, things still won't be alright. 'Cause Fudge will have completely ruined our way of life."

Hermione nodded. "Voldemort's the best thing that ever happened to that asshole."

Harry rubbed his forehead and stared down at his unappetizing meal. "This sucks."

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At the Slytherin table, the War was a strictly taboo topic, whichever side one happened to be on. Instead, the table was alive with talk about the party planned for the next day – Saturday. DM was a little disappointed that no one seemed to have taken seriously his proposal to invite select individuals from the other houses; except, well. . .

Goyle turned his head abruptly to blink at the thin, strange boy sitting next to him. He waited silently, and stilly except for the occasional blink. It took a moment for DM to respond to the convention by turning his head to give his bulky "friend" his full attention. "Yes?"

It took a moment for Greg to muster a response, and when he did it was voiced in a near whisper. "Were you serious about inviting other people?"

DM blinked in surprise, but his blank expression never faltered. "Yes. Why?"

Greg actually blushed, which would have been a surprise to anyone else, but Malfoy had known the bloke for six years and was well aware of his more sensitive side. "Well, I was, uh, thinking of inviting this, uh, Ravenclaw from, uh, Divination."

DM's lips twitched in an almost-smile, and he purposely asked in his most teasing, obnoxious voice, "A girl?"

Greg nodded vigorously.

"Who?" Now DM actually was smiling, and though it was an amused smile, it wasn't mocking or malicious.

Greg leaned closer and cupped a hand to DM's ear to whisper, "Luna Lovegood."

DM had to repress a completely uncharacteristic and irrational urge to shriek in mirthful and good natured laughter. Instead a large, Cheshire cat grin plastered itself to his face. DM hadn't felt this good. . . well, ever. "That's great, Greg. I think you two will get along splendidly. And yes, I was serious. I am planning on inviting a couple of people myself, so that crazy bint Lovegood won't be the only one."

Goyle may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew Malfoy's mannerisms well enough to pick up on DM's attempt at humor (after all, Malfoy and DM had a lot more in common then the latter would like to admit). "You're the crazy bint, Malfoy," Gregory insulted pleasantly, before stuffing a toast into his mouth. "Slo, who yah gonna infite?"

Now it was DM's turn to lean closer conspiratorially. "Granger and Potter."

Goyle promptly spewed out his food, spraying chunks on Crabbe who sat across from him talking pleasantly with Parkinson. He looked over and gave his friend a glare, picked off a few of the more conspicuous chunks, then returned his attention to Pansy's mouth and, uh, breasts (he really wasn't in a position to complain, as both he and Greg were notorious for eating like hogs). Greg wiped his mouth with his hand, then frowned worriedly at DM. "Why?," he asked stressfully.

DM put great effort into acting nonchalant. He took a small bite of a scone, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed before replying calmly, "Because You-Know-Who wants me dead. I won't side with him and I know too much to be left alive. So I need to explore my options. Besides, Potter and Granger would make powerful friends. The party is a perfect opportunity to feel them out on my territory."

It was definitely a risk for him to be bringing the topic up with so little preparation, especially considering the fact that the Goyles had made it very clear that they had a Death Eater future planned out for their son. Still, DM was counting on the fact that Malfoy was much closer to Greg than his own parents had ever been, and that Greg had relied (successfully) on Malfoy time and time again to lead the way through treacherous waters.

Goyle looked at his old friend doubtfully for a long moment, before finally saying, "Well, I guess if Luna is friends with them, they aren't too bad. . ."

DM smiled with relief and impulsively reached out to grab his friend's arm and give it a squeeze. "Don't worry, Greg. Go ahead and invite Lovegood. I'll make sure everything is okay." It was unexplainable, but he was felt like he could do anything. Maybe it was time to give magic another try.

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After Transfiguration DM told Parkinson, Millicent, Zabini, Goyle, and Crabbe to go to lunch without him, and sauntered over to confront the Golden Trio, who were packing their bags and chatting leisurely.

"Potter, Granger," he spoke with complete decorum.

The three Gryffindors turned around with some surprise.

"What do YOU want?," Ron spat distastefully.

DM ignored the Weasel completely and kept his gaze trained on Hermione and Harry (who were both grimacing with embarrassment at their fiery friend's behavior). Harry was intentionally dulling his reaction, and Hermione gave him a quick, confused glance before stepping up to fill the awkward silence. "Malfoy. How can we help you?"

Ron sputtered and was about to speak, but DM beat him to it, an obviously artificial but polite expression of friendliness on his face. "The Slytherins are hosting an inter-house party tomorrow night at ten, to which I hereby invite you, Hermione Granger, and you, Harry Potter. I don't imagine many of my housemates will bother to invite anyone, but I'm pretty certain a few Ravenclaws will be there, and I personally guarantee that no one will mess with you while there."

Both Hermione and Harry were stunned, and Harry's mouth actually fell open in surprise.

Ron exploded angrily, "They would never be caught dead with the likes of you or any of your disgusting friends, you psychofuck!"

DM's eyes narrowed dangerously, his muscles suddenly clenching, and a physical altercation was clearly on the verge of breaking out. As though sharing each other's thoughts, Harry and Hermione acted in unison: the latter jumping in front of Ron to block his access to the blond, while the former stepped forward to address him warily. "Why should we?"

DM arched a very Malfoyish eyebrow. "I have no reason, I just invited you. Come if you want, if not. . . we're completely capable of having a good time by ourselves. You're the only ones who would be missing out."

Harry tried to size the blond up objectively. Was this his attempt to add a few bricks to the bridge of friendship that was tentatively being built? Surely nothing too dangerous could happen with the Hogwart's walls (though he was well aware of the dangers of that assumption). And what of his vow to focus on more important matters? On the other hand, what sort of focus would he be able to achieve on a Saturday night anyway? Maybe this would be a good opportunity to do some reconnaissance into enemy territory. Yes, reconnaissance into enemy territory sounded very. . . appealing.

He had been on the verge of saying yes, but the sudden influx of lust made him reel back. "I don't know, Malfoy. Getting drunk with you lot doesn't sound like the safest way to spend my Saturday evening. Some of us have better things to do. Like win a war."

DM's eyes flashed wrathfully. He had gone out on a limb assuming that the Gryffidors would leap at the chance to further their crusade to persuade him to their side, and those bleeding fucks were refusing him?! "I hate you, Potter," he hissed and spun around on his heal.

Hermione didn't know what was going on with Harry, but she wasn't going to let him blow Operation Malfoy without knowing why, so she called out in an effort to salvage the situation, "Malfoy!"

DM turned around slowly, guardedly, to see an unhappy but determined Potter, a Weasel on the verge of a speechless, rage induced conniption fit, and a Mudblood who appeared to be the only one with her head screwed on properly. She barreled on over Ron's noises of protest, "Can Ron come?!"

"Hermione!," Ron growled. "I wouldn't go if my life depended on it!"

Both DM and Granger ignored him, as they both ignored a glaring Harry Potter. They stared challengingly at each other before the Slytherin finally spoke, "Yes. If he is capable of restraining himself. But if he even steps a toe out line, I won't even try to stop my housemates. Actually, that goes for you and Potter too. All I can guarantee is that as long as you don't throw the first punch, no physical violence will take place."

Hermione nodded diplomatically. "We may swing by then."

DM held her gaze for a moment longer before turning to Harry, who was so conflicted he didn't even know how he felt and was looking distinctly awkward. "Disappointing, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "Very disappointing. . . Don't go doing me any favors." And with that, he stalked off.

"WHAT WAS THAT?! WHY DID THAT FUCKING FERRET MALFOY JUST ASK YOU TWO TO A FUCKING PARTY?!"

Luckily for Ron, McGonagall had long left the Transfiguration classroom, or else he would have certainly received a detention for his language. Hermione completely ignored his yelling and turned on Harry. "What the hell was that?! I thought this is what you wanted?! You're the one who wanted to make friends with him, and now that he finally makes overtures in our direction, you punk out!"

All this yelling and tension was beginning to get to the conflicted Harry, and he snapped. "I don't know! I don't know what I want! I don't what to do! Just – ah! – just leave me alone!"

Harry stormed off to go eat lunch with Ginney, Dean, Seamus and Neville, leaving Hermione with the very unpleasant job of explaining the situation to Ron.

"Ron, calm down. Harry and I have been trying to get Malfoy to come around to our side for the last week. Ever since the incident during Charms. You saw him. That kind of power could really come in handy. And with his father dead and him out of favor with Voldemort, this is a fabulous opportunity. I don't like him any better than you, but wouldn't you rather have him with us instead of against us? And really, he's not as bad as he used to be. A little crazier maybe, but less evil. . . "

It took a lot more convincing.

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Hermione waited until that evening, when Ron was out on the quidditch pitch being taught the principles of football by Dean, to confront Harry about his behavior. "What happened this afternoon? I thought this is what you wanted?"

They were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to work, but really just fretting about the situation the world was in. Harry didn't know how to answer Hermione's question. The truth was out of the question and he couldn't think of a lie that would could be delivered both believably and guilt free; and he refused to make up some incriminating fallacy about Malfoy.

In the end, he responded by banging his head against the table.

"Harry! Stop! For Merlin's sake, what's wrong?!," Hermione looked pretty upset and Harry felt bad about worrying her.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry 'Mione. I just have so much on my mind right now without thinking about Malfoy. You have to admit, he is a lot to deal with."

Hemione's expression was conflicted. On one hand, she wanted to sympathize with her long time friend; on the other hand, she was beginning to feel like she was dealing with everything that Harry didn't want to. "Harry," she began carefully. "I know you have a lot to deal with right now. That's why I've taken on the responsibility of organizing DA, and that's why I've taken steps towards making a connection with Malfoy. But I can't do it alone; so you have to set your priorities so that I can help you with what matters. Do you want us to give up on Malfoy and concentrate our efforts elsewhere?"

Phrased like that, it sounded bad. Harry didn't want to give up on Malfoy, not when he was finally showing progress, and especially not for a stupid fucking reason like having a transient infatuation with him. That wasn't Malfoy's fault, whatever other faults the Slytherin had – which Harry had apparently been willing to overlook earlier.

Harry sighed with frustration. "I don't know, what do you think?"

Hermione replied with emphatic conviction, "I think you were right to pursue him. I was skeptical at the time, but now I think that we really might be able to get him to come around. Just. . . being around him, I can't explain it – he crackles of magical energy. Whatever his problem manifesting that energy is, he clearly is still capable of magic. I think he could be a powerful ally." And, as an afterthought, she added, "He really isn't that bad, I guess."

They looked at each other for a long moment before Harry voiced his defeat, "You want to go to this party, don't you?"

"Yes! Aside from Operation Malfoy, it's like a sociological investigation! A opportunity to understand a demographic we have always considered evil and inhuman!"

Harry raised both eyebrows in a display of cynicism. Given the reputation of the Slytherin parties, Hermione would be able to well indulge any voyeuristic desire she had to investigate drinking, dancing, doing drugs, and having sex.

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Saturday morning, DM and Hermione were two of only a dozen students in the library. They picked up where they had left off Wednesday evening by studying together, though this time without the pretense of not studying together. This lack of pretense allowed actual conversation on the subject matter, and Hermione was pleased to note that DM's questions were insightful and coherent, and even added something to her own perspective. Indeed, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the assistance Malfoy required was in the form of interaction, which allowed him to overcome his severe attention deficit, and not an inability to understand concepts. Academic discussion came easily and the topic of the party was avoided completely. Hermione had considered bringing it up, for she wanted to excuse Harry's behavior, but DM was very business-like in his study demeanor and steadfastly refused to provide an opening.

DM was aware of the anxious looks she shot at him every once and a while, but he was too preoccupied with other matters to deal with what she had to say. He was mildly resentful of Potter's conduct the day before, but really he was more concerned with other matters. The party, originally his suggestion, had become more distressing as it neared. He was well aware of what sort of behavior went down at Slytherin parties, and what sort of behavior would be expected of him, and he was highly aggravated by the thought of having to spend the entire time both brushing of the advances of his housemates and restraining his anger at the indignation that such rejection would surely create. Not that they weren't entitled to their indignation – Malfoy had, after all, fucked a good portion of them for reasons that had nothing at all to do with love or attraction.

Malfoy and Parkinson had been fucking quite a lot since second year: she was his fiancée and it was expected. Crabbe and Goyle he had both fucked as a way of strengthening their ties to him: it wasn't viewed by any of the three as sex, but as a personalized form of ritual bonding. Zabini he had fucked because the Italian boy would do anything to avoid letting word get out that he had bottomed for anyone, and Malfoy was not the type to pass up on juicy blackmail material. Bulstrode had been a pity fuck for which she would always be grateful and indebted to Malfoy.

The list went on and on to include every single 6th year, most 7th years, and almost all of the 5th and 4th years. Malfoy had considered the youngest years sufficiently terrified of him not to require being fucked into submission. Sex with adults was a different matter, but one Malfoy had also deliberately and craftily engaged in. Sex, after all, was power, if executed properly, and Malfoy had acquired power at any cost.

But DM was not going to be the same person. No sex, no torture, no cruelty, and ABSOLUTELY NO KILLING PEOPLE.

DM shook his head vigorously, earning himself a questioning look from his study partner, which he ignored completely, for that had been the large can of worms that DM was trying to avoid by not talking to Hermione about Harry Potter and the upcoming Slytherin party. Calm down, DM, whatever happens, no one will be dying tonight.

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Because I know the Party chapter is so juicy, I have posted it at the same time as this chapter, so read on! But not without REVIEWING FIRST! I am good to you, so please be good to me.


	14. War Party in the Slytherin Commons

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

CH.14: The War Party in the Slytherin Commons

Of all the houses, Ravenclaw was the only one that was even remotely close to Slytherin. Therefore, it was of little surprise that, by 10:20, the only students non-Slytherins present in the Slytherin common room were Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang, Terry Boot, and Roger Davies. By 10:30, Padma Patil had joined her housemates, dragging her twin along (bringing the number of outsiders to 5 Ravenclaws and 1 Gryffindor; of the Slytherin house, only fifth through seventh years were permitted to be present, bringing their attendance to around 30, a number that fluctuated as various members retired and returned from their dorms).

The common room had been decorated exquisitely. Twisted silver streamers hung along the ceiling and walls, charmed to spin slowly and sparkle like a disco ball. Along one side of room, the six dark green couches had been moved to create three enclaves, each seating ten people with only a minimum of squeeze. The wall that these couches were set perpendicular to sported soft, low lightening that gently caressed the bodies there. Separating the couches from the rest of the room was a row of dark oak tables lit by green illumination and laden with cakes, crisps and dip, mini sandwiches and pizzas, chips [A/N: French fries for American readers], two vegetable platters, and two meat and cheese platters. And, of course, there were three large porcelain bowls full of punches of various strengths and flavors. The end table furthest from the entrance was clearly the beverage table: two kegs of butterbeer were stationed on either side of the table, while the surface was littered with dozens of mixers and liquors, from wizarding drinks like fire whiskey and genie gin to muggle classics like Smirnoff vodka and Jose Cuervo tequila.

The space on the other side of the table division had been turned into a dance floor, with strobe lights alternatively flashing white and black light from the furthest wall, highlighting the undulating figures on the floor. Dance music – sometimes techno or rave, sometimes hip hop, plus the occasional subdued slow dance music – blared vociferously on this side of the room, a noise damper having been placed on the opposite side so that people could talk comfortably to the background music. Various traces of smoke could be detected throughout the room, from tobacco, wizard's weed, and. . . was that opium? It didn't matter; Snape always covered for his house, and turned a blind eye to such illegal activities, provided no one was hurt.

This was the scene that the Golden Trio walked into at 10:40, after Hermione had spent much of the evening badgering her two friends at every step (convincing them to dress appropriately had been a total nightmare, and the end result was still less than satisfactory). While the Ravenclaws had been admitted easily, and Parvarti with a minimum of suspicion (she and her sister were notoriously social), the entrance of Granger, Potter, and the Weasel brought the entire gathering to a temporary standstill.

The Gryffindors couldn't help but gape in surprise: the setup far exceeded anything they could have expected. The music was louder, the lightening more exotic, the people more uninhibited, the alcohol more abundant, the drugs more prevalent, and. . . the atmosphere more overpowering.

A giant seventh year, as tall as Ron but far more bulky, was suddenly blocking their view of the thirtysomething pairs of eyes trained on them; their peripheral vision was further blocked as two other goons took up position on either side of the monstrosity. "Just what do you think you are doing here?," he growled menacingly. Harry heard Ron gulp loudly.

DM, dressed in a gray turtleneck and dress slacks, preempted any escalation of hostilities by shoving the Vilborne aside to make room for him and his own posse, consisting of Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson. A little further into the shadows, Bulstrode, Zabini, Nott, and a few others could be seen waiting as reinforcements. "They are my guests, and better be treated as such," he stated coldly, dangerously. The Gryffindors (and, indeed, many of Slytherin spectators) found themselves immediately hypnotized by the interaction.

Vilborne and a couple others were getting sick of taking orders from the unbalanced traitorous version of the old Draco Malfoy, and this was the final straw. "No, Malfoy. YOU are the guest here. And you are very close to wearing out your welcome," Vilborne growled threateningly.

Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward to do something about this miscreant, but DM extended two steel arms in either direction to block their actions and narrowed his eyes to hateful slits. The more sensitive students present could feel a slight change in the atmosphere, as though free magic were building up in the air, just waiting to manifest and jump to life. Both Hermione and Harry felt it, and vaguely recognized it as their subconscious memories flashed back to the morning DM had gotten himself hit by a magical lightening. Everyone was tense and on edge.

"I still haven't thanked you for ganging up on me last month," DM hissed gravely through clenched teeth. "Three against one, me not able to use my wand. That wasn't a fair fight, Vilborne."

Vilborne stepped forward challengingly. "Fair? What are we, Gryffindors?"

DM smirked ruthlessly. "No, we're not."

He made the first move, reaching out to shove the gargantuan boy. He couldn't explain it: he could feel the rage, the energy, the power. It was as sharp and explosive as before, but this time he felt detached from it. He felt in control. . . of something. And it lashed out when he did, hurling the boy across the room to crash into the ash and metal of the dead fire place. In the attention being paid to DM and Vilborne, the latter's two supporters melted into the staring crowd.

DM turned back to the three Gryffindors, who had still not managed a single word since entrance, and he quickly decided that it was best to keep it that way. It was time to get this party back on track. He reached forward and grabbed Granger's and Potter's unwilling hands and pulled them towards the dance floor. The two tried to voice their objections, but DM ignored them entirely, making eye contact first with the Weasel, "Weasley," and then with Parkinson, "Pansy. Come one. This is a party people!"

Once out on the dance floor, DM dropped their hands and began dancing, to be joined almost immediately by Pansy. DM may have hated the body that had belonged to Malfoy, but it didn't affect his dancing: his body knew how to move itself – gyrating, bending, jumping, kicking, swinging in perfect time with the music – and Pansy was hardly any less competent. Indeed, in a matter of moments, the dance floor was alive again with moving bodies, as though nothing had happened, and only the Golden Trio were left awkwardly still in the middle.

"Well, I guess we should, uh, dance." Surprisingly, it was Ron who made the suggestion, despite having two left feet. The truth about Ron was that, even though he hated the fact that the Slytherins were the ones holding the party, he had always wanted to part of events like these – dancing, drinking, and crazy happenings. Years of hearing stories from the Bill, Charlie, and the twins about having wild times into the wee hours of the morning had left him craving such experiences. The opportunity had just never presented itself until now, and he found his repressed desire to be a teenage party animal quite outweighed his somewhat irrational (or was it jealous?) dislike of Slytherins.

Both Hermione and Harry looked at him as though he had just grown a third head, but Ron was feeling drunk with the atmosphere, so he just smiled goofily and took Hermione's hand.

"Ron. . .," but it was too late, Ron was already excitedly engaging in what appeared to be the chicken dance, and his grip on her arm clearly indicated that she was along for the ride. She gave an apologetic glance at Harry then redirected her efforts into making her and her partner look a little less foolish.

Harry looked around him desperately, like a lost boy. . . which he was: a lost Gryffindor on a Slytherin dance floor. And the aor was intoxicating, the lights dizzying, the music deafening, and the bodies moving, sweating, glistening. . .

Then Parkinson was in front of him, hips swiveling, chest heaving, blond hair tumbling down on exposed cleavage, her hands on his waist pulling him closer, her doe eyes saying oh merlin, come fuck me. . . and where the fuck was Malfoy?

He barely had time to ask himself the question before DM materialized behind Pansy, hands on her hips, swaying to her rhythm, eyes locked with Harry's but their expression unreadable. Then he felt smooth, masculine hands taking his own, placing them on a soft, feminine waist, and DM's sexy lips quirked up. "Dance, Potter," he mouthed over the music, and Harry found himself dancing.

DM was only part of their threesome for a minute or so before breaking off with a last enigmatic smile to dance alone. Parkinson was guiding Harry's moves, so he didn't dare leave her, but his eyes were fixed longingly on the incomparable blond. His head was thrown back, his whole body leaning back as he moved, he seemed like a wolf howling to the moon, or like an ancient warrior dancing for the gods to bring him victory. As the night progressed, occasionally others would approach to dance with him, but he would only tolerate their presence for a minute or two before pushing them away. The Prince of Slytherin danced gloriously; and he danced alone.

At that moment there was nothing Harry wanted more than to be the one to dance with him.

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Harry had a surprisingly good time on the dance floor (dancing with Pansy, then Padma and Parvati together), and it took him quite a while to go investigate the goings on of the food and beverages tables. He made his way over to where Hermione (and quite a few Slytherins) stood with a skeptical expression, only to be himself dumbfounded by what he saw: Crabbe and Ron were sitting side by side in front of two huge plates of meatloaf, shoveling food down their gullets as if their was no tomorrow.

It was a disgusting site. Ron and Crabbe were easily two of the most piggy eaters in the entire school (though Goyle could certainly give either a run for their money; he, however, was otherwise engaged on one of the couches with Luna Lovegood), and both were at the height of their pigginess at the moment. Chunks of meat and vegetable were flying in every direction, as various spectators squealed and tried to jump out of the way, while an entire array of animal sounds were emanating from the two eaters.

Harry poked Hermione (who he noticed was gripping a butterbeer) to get her attention. "What the hell?"

Hermione looked like she had given up on something that even she didn't know the identity of. "Oh, Harry, it's terrible. Ron decided to try some genie gin, and now those two are having an eating contest."

Harry blinked expressionlessly for a moment before deciding that he really didn't want to be part of this scene at all. "Fabulous. Well, I'm going to the drink table," he deadpanned, and moved away as quickly as possible.

Dehydrated from the dance floor, he quickly downed his first glass of punch, and was pouring another when none other than Cho Chang came up to him and gave him a huge hug. "Harry!," she slurred loudly.

"Cho," Harry responded warily. Chang looked positively shitfaced, leaning on Harry for support, glazed eyes, and a goofy grin on her face. She still looked kinda hot though, with her fit body and cute, round face.

"You don't talk to me anymore, Harry," she accused petulantly, a luscious lower lip stuck out poutingly.

"That's not true. I talk to you in DA," Harry defended; but he knew she was right. He didn't want anything to do with her after the debacle last year. He couldn't help but think of her and want to flee.

"It's not the same." Now her face was very close to his and he could definitely smell a strong stench of liquor – straight tequila if he'd had to guess. He vaguely remembered some of the students doing body shots while he had been dancing, perhaps she was one of them? If she was, she apparently didn't feel as though she had gotten enough action that way. "Kiss me, Harry!"

He tried to hold her back, but her lips were on his, moving drunkenly, and a wet tongue was licking at him, and it was not sexy at all. He pulled away in disgust. "Cho! You're drunk!"

Cho looked upset, as though she was either going to cry or attack him. Luckily, Roger Davies saved his ass, walking over looking exhausted and a little ill. "Hey Harry. Cho, I'm feeling a bit sick, I think I'm going to head back."

"Roger, man, you've gotta take her with you. She's completed wasted!," Harry blurted desperately.

"No, I'm not!," Cho replied indignantly. Roger looked from Harry's pleading expression to Cho's flushed face and unfocused pupils.

"Come on, Cho, lets go," Roger sighed, taking her arm.

She looked about to argue when a thought hit her and she giggled. "Hey, that rhymes! You're a poet and you didn't know it. My name is Cho and I gotta go, as you should know. . ."

Roger rolled his eyes at Harry and began pulling the drunk Ravenclaw to the door. Harry let out a breath of relief and downed his second glass of punch. Was it just him, or did it taste rather strong?

As if reading his thoughts, DM was suddenly before him. "Be careful, Potter. I know for a fact that Millicent mixed that batch, which always means that its victims can account for at least half of the bodies passed out on the floor the next morning."

Harry gave a brief shake of his head before focusing on Malfoy. The Slytherin's eyes were sharp, clearly not subjected to any alcohol, but he did have a cigarette held between his fingers. And the fetching gray turtleneck he had been wearing previously had completely disappeared, replaced only with a white wifebeater that was soaked with sweat and clung provocatively to the muscles of his chest and abdomen. Harry wanted to slap himself for spending so much time noticing these details about Malfoy and a scowl made its way unbidden to his face. What the hell was wrong? Didn't he have enough shit to deal with at the moment?

Still, it was his turn to talk, and he forced out something, "Slytherin certainly knows how to throw a party. If we ever decide that getting Voldemort to drink himself to death or OD, we'll know who to call."

DM was a little startled by Harry's comment, then he laughed. It was a natural, real laugh, and only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough. It was a beautiful, vivacious sound, the first laugh Harry had heard from Malfoy that hadn't been malicious or mocking. His heart skipped a beat and he felt flutters in his stomach. The alcohol let him admit to himself that he ached. Perhaps it was just hormonal teenage lust, but he really really wanted the boy before him, the boy who had been his rival for five years, the boy he barely knew. He wanted to touch him, he wanted to be liked by him, he wanted to know him.

"If you think this is deadly, you should see what is going on in the fifth year girls' dorm. Muggle cocaine, Potter. If Voldemort ever got a hold of that shit, he either self destruct or become a fucking god." He took a drag of his cigarette.

Harry didn't know whether to concentrate his slightly fuzzy mind on those lips pursed around that infernal cancer stick, or to be horrified by the fact that hard core drugs were going down nearby. "Should I be worried?," he asked without thinking any further.

DM smirked. "Nah. These girls know what they're doing. Besides, Voldemort wouldn't be caught dead do muggle drugs."

Harry didn't know what to say, and felt a little uncomfortable with their unequal footing. Malfoy didn't have to deal with distracting and lustful thoughts, nor did he appear to be at all affected by alcohol (though really, who would know with his psychotic self?).

"Don't you drink?" Ug, another stupid question chalked up to the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-An-Ass-Out-Of-Himself-In-Front-of-Draco-Malfoy.

DM shook his head. "Malfoy – uh, well, I used to, but I doubt lowered inhibitions would be good for me in this state. I find it hard enough not to attack half the people in this room that have hit on me."

Fuck, this conversation just kept on getting worse and worse. Harry didn't want to think about how everyone wanted a piece of the super sexy, somewhat unstable Draco Malfoy. Why the hell was he here submitting himself to this anyway? Still, he couldn't help but pick up on the boy's slip of referring to himself in the third person. It was. . . endearing, and somehow felt very intimate.

Harry rubbed eyes for a moment to clear his mind, and gathered his wits for a moment in order to speak deliberately. "Why did you invite us here, Diem?"

Harry had simply supplanted his usual 'Malfoy' with 'Diem' as a gesture of cooperation, and of recognition of their conversation earlier in the week, but he couldn't have predicted the effect it would have of DM. He didn't smile, or even move a single facial muscle; he just lurched forward, dropping his cigarette, and grabbed Harry in an awkward and strangely personal hug. Blond hair could be felt brushing Harry's cheek, and he froze, half excited and half terrified, waiting in intense anticipation for what would happen next.

"Thank you," DM whispered hoarsely. He wasn't sure why he had the reacted the way he had, just that he had felt so grateful and validated for being addressed in such a way. He was neither Draco, nor Malfoy, and now someone else had recognized it too. Though the real reason he had invited the Gryffindors had simply been that he wanted to make some attempt to mend hostilities (as they themselves had made), he felt no qualms in answering, "For that. I invited you to hear you call me Diem."

DM pulled away from Harry to see his reaction: the raven haired boy looked stupefied, as though he had no idea what had hit him. It was kind of cute, and DM smiled openly. He liked this humor, these positive emotions, that he felt in Potter's presence. It felt so good to be happy, if only for a few moments. It felt like a reason to keep living, to fight on. Months of rage and despair had made recently achieved moments of pleasure infinitely more appreciated.

"Enjoy yourself, Potter. I think I'm going to retire before the dungeons devolve into a drunken orgy." DM turned to leave, but Harry's gut forced him into action. He just couldn't let the night end like that.

"Wait!"

DM stopped and looked over his shoulder with an amused smile and a cocked eyebrow. Harry cleared his throat nervously. "You can call me Harry."

DM's expression didn't change, though he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Good night, Harry."

Then he headed off into the crowd, in the vague direction of the dorms. Harry was left jittery and unwilling to think of the happenings of the last half hour. He poured himself a third cup of punch, promptly downed it, then set off to find Hermione and Ron before the orgy set in.

It took a good ten minutes to finally find them curled up on a couch making out, with a couple of stoned Slytherins laughing at them from the opposite couch. Harry groaned. Tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day.

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PARTY ON my friends and readers! (Gee, I wish I would get invited to a Slytherin party.) Please review!


	15. The Aftermath or, The Curse of Slytherin...

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the HP Universe are the property of JK Rowling and her associates.

Reviewers: DREAMWEAVER and SPENCERBROWN, thank you for your encouragement. WOLFWITCH, thank you for your criticism, I will keep it in mind (though to be honest, my characters curse a lot because I curse a lot). ICE, I usually take reviewer's comments very seriously, and try to adapt my writing to valid criticisms. But, in this case, you have picked on something that I take even more seriously. As an American raised abroad to understand the rest of the world's views on the USA, I can honestly say that the rest of the world hates our guts, and with good reason; they are not the people who need to be educated, we are. We are the people in dire need of perspective. The rest of the world sees Bush for what he really is: a corrupt, corporate, falsely religious, right wing Nazi; a defiance to the true spirit of democracy; and a man who is both abusing America's strength by forcing his ignorance upon the world and abusing Americans by playing on their fears. I hate to lose a reader, but I will in defense of my beliefs: if you are reading my SLASH story, then YOU are one of those people Bush hates for being a pervert. He is not defending you, nor me, he is defending the right to prosecute you and me. I hereby apologize, because your review has completely backfired and has inspired me to create a politically relevant twist to the War. TO OTHER REVIEWERS: Sorry for this political spiel, please disregard it as it is not directed to you. You may notice that I rarely address my reviewers, but when someone criticizes my political views in favor of defending that illegally "elected" president, I go a bit nuts. So, in conclusion, I don't like Kerry at all; but I will vote for anyone who is NOT BUSH. Please enjoy the rest of the show.

Ch. 15: The Aftermath

or The Curse of Slytherin Parties

Harry's Sunday morning was spent doing damage control, beginning at nine AM with Ron vigorously shaking him. "Harry! Harry!!! Wake up!"

"Ugh." He tried to ignore the irritating voice and the hand that was shaking him vigorously, but it was impossible. Finally, he shot up into a sitting position, feeling exhausted, slightly nauseous, and extremely pissed off for being waken up. "What?!," he snapped, reaching for his glasses, only to feel contrite upon getting his first eyeful of Ron. The boy looked like death warmed over: dark rings under his eyes indicated a few hours of restless sleep; a pasty, oily skin divulged the presence of a killer hangover; hickies on his necked betrayed the previous night's activities; and the horrified and pathetic expression on his friend's face proved his awareness of everything. "Geez, man, you look terrible."

Ron couldn't have cared less; he had only one thing on his mind. "What am I supposed to say to 'Mione?!," he demanded hysterically. By this point Dean and Seamus were sitting up in bed to watch the show; Neville, on the other hand, could sleep through a war and never even turn over.

"Calm down!," Harry hushed, giving Dean and Seamus a glare that clearly said, this is none of your business. Ron was on the verge of a breakdown, so Harry rushed on, "Listen, Ron. Everything's going to be fine. First of all, Hermione is going to be just as embarrassed about all this as you, so if you don't want to talk about it, she'll probably be willing to pretend it never happened. Secondly: Ron, isn't this what you always wanted? Haven't you been nuts about her since fourth year? Well, what with the lowered inhibitions of alcohol and all, I think it's safe to say that she feels the same about you."

Now Ron looked like someone holding onto reason by one thread of hope. "Really?," he asked piteously.

Harry smiled affectionately. "Yes, really."

"She's googoo for you, mate. The only one who doesn't see it is you," Seamus added obtrusively. Of course, Ron had heard all this before, but his smoochfest the night before had added new credibility to the assurances of his mates.

Ron smiled nervously at Harry, then at Seamus and Dean, who both gave him thumbs up. "Ok, then," he said weakly, with embarrassment. "I'm, uh, going to go take a shower."

Harry flopped back on the bed tiredly and pulled his pillow over his face, while Seamus and Dean eyed him questioningly. Finally the two got up and moved to go sit on Harry's bed. "Okay, spill," Dean ordered. "What were you three up to last night?"

Through the pillow Harry's reply was muffled, "Party."

Seamus looked scandalized at his answer, though Harry couldn't see his face. "What?! And you didn't invite us?!"

Dean, however, took a moment to put two and two together. "Wait a sec. . . you was at the Slytherin party, wasn't ya?"

Harry removed the pillow and gave his affirmative. Dean was looking at him funny, but Seamus looked suddenly irate. "You bastards! After all that crap about how evil they are and we shouldn't associate with their kind, yous all go off to one of their parties and get plastered with them!" Harry tried to interrupt (he really wasn't up for dealing with this crap so early on his slightly hungover Sunday morning), but it just made Seamus yell louder, "What about us, Harry?! Don't you think we want to go to a Slytherin party?! All those rumors about sex and drinking, we couldn't possibly want ANYTHING to do with that, could we?!"

"Hunh? Sex and drinking?," Neville mumbled sleepily as he sat up.

That was it, Harry's last nerve was history. He sat up and pushed Seamus off his bed. "WE were invited, Seamus. Not you. That's why WE went, and you didn't, not because of some school wide plot to deprive you of a good time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a shower." Harry grabbed his towel and stalked off.

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DM woke to find Pansy passed out in his bed. He still wore his pajamas, and she was still partially dressed in her party getup, but it didn't stop the anger from springing forth, and he spitefully shoved her out of the bed.

"OW! Bastard! Draco!" Then the curtains were yanked apart to reveal a fuming Parkinson. "What the hell was that for?!"

From somewhere behind her DM could hear Crabbe snoring, though both Goyle's and Zabini's sleeping sounds were missing from the usual ensemble. He turned his attention back to the disheveled bitch before him.

"What do you think, Pansy? I told you last night I didn't want company! And here you are!" Crabbe wasn't quite Longbottom in his naturally capacity to sleep like the dead; however, he had only hit the sack three hours earlier after several hours of smoking wizards weed: it would have taken a something a lot more than raised voices to wake up the ol' stoner in that state, as all his friends knew quite well.

"Well, I wanted company! I don't see what the big deal is! It's not like I molested you while you were asleep! We used to share a bed all the time!," Pansy accused, but it was strain of distress in her voice that cooled his anger. He ran his hand through his hair, let out of its rows to permit more comfortable sleeping, and sighed in frustration.

"We used to do a lot of things. I used to do a lot of things. But I can't do those things anymore. I can't be who I used to be," he tried to be patient as he explained. How many times had he been forced to give this spiel?

Pansy fell onto DM's bed with a little wail. "Why not? I liked who you used to be!"

Her words hurt and he was forced to suppress the pain and take several long seconds to school his voice not to waver. "Well, I don't. I hate who I used to be."

Pansy seemed to sense that her words had wounded him, and she felt both a thrill of revenge (for he had hurt her) and the pain of guilt (for she cared for him), so she didn't respond for a moment. But she couldn't leave the subject alone, her future was at stake, and she wanted answers. "But why?"

"I. . .," DM started distraughtly, before stopping himself and starting over more evenly. "Look, my father, he did something to my mother and me. Something you could never understand, something horrible, the worst thing you can do to a person, worse than killing them, worse them raping them, worse than torturing them – though in some ways it was all that and more. And when he died. . . it left my mother a vegetable in St. Mungo's." Desperation leaked into his voice, he wanted so badly for her to understand. "She's never going to recover, Pansy. Never. There is nothing inside of her to recover, she's just shell, an empty vessel. And if that bastard hadn't died, it would have happened to me too!. . . So I can't be who I used to be, because I'm not that person anymore! Can't you just accept that?"

Pansy wanted to understand, she truly did, but DM didn't want her to understand – not really. He wanted her comprehend the result of his ordeal, but he didn't want her to comprehend the ordeal itself; he didn't want anyone to. To voice it, to explain it, meant belittling what had happened, for what had happened was unspeakable, and inexplicable. It was larger than life, and equally incomprehensible.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long time, DM searching for acceptance, and Pansy for answers, but neither could find quite what they were looking for. Finally, Pansy gave up and hugged him. "Lets get go back to bed. I'm exhausted."

DM shook his head. "Not all of us stayed up all night. I'm going to take a shower, then go down to brunch."

"But I want a body to cuddle!," Pansy whined endearingly, flashing a bit of pouty lip.

DM smiled faintly, and a little mischievously. "There's always Vincent. He's fancied you for ages, and would probably spend the rest of the year waiting on you hand and foot if you let him wake up with you. And don't tell me that idea doesn't appeal to you, I know how much you miss your house elves."

"And you don't?," she asked skeptically, as DM disappeared in the direction of the boys' showers. Then she glanced over at Vincent, who almost looked cute in his sleep. She had always had a soft spot in her heart for cuddly chub.

Lo and behold, when DM returned from a relaxing shower (that he really needed), Pansy had squeezed herself onto Vincent's bed, and the two were sleeping soundly.

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Brunch was an unpleasant affair. Seamus and Dean were decidedly still pissed off for not being allowed to tag along to the party. Ginny kept eagerly trying to pump Ron and Hermione for details, but they were hardly forthcoming as they tiptoed around the topic of the previous night's happenings with awkward, halting conversation and furtive glances. Neville didn't seem to care and was trying to engage the various uninterested parties in a conversation about a cancerous growth that had developed on one of his plants. Harry didn't want to have anything to do with any of them, and spent the meal hunched over his oatmeal, purposely nursing a bad mood so that his housemates would leave him alone.

Last night had been a mistake, obviously. Evidence: firstly, their presence had started a fight; secondly, Ron and Hermione had dangerously gotten drunk in enemy territory!; thirdly, it had only indulged and stoked his unwanted interest in Malfoy; and, most importantly, he had gone to bed last night without doing his mental exercises. As far as he could tell, nothing had happened, but this was exactly that kind of mistake he couldn't afford. He was Harry fucking Potter, and those kind of mistakes resulted in people dying! People like Cedric, like Sirius. . .

And yet, there was Malfoy, Diem, whoever the fuck, sitting at the nearly vacant Slytherin table, frowning at his open copy of the Daily Prophet. All his housemates (well, the older ones) lay in bed with debilitating hangovers, or what have you, and yet there he was, looking scrumptious, with that jam smeared absently on his lip, that sexy scowl. . . what is he reading with such intensity anyway?

Harry picked up Hermione's untouched copy of the Daily Prophet, and opened it with some trepidation. The issue was immediately obvious.

MINISTRY DETAINS MUGGLE SUSPECTS IN LATEST ATTACK

The article that followed was horrifying. The muggles were being held responsible for an attack against a wizarding kindergarten, the theory being posited that You-Know-Who and his followers had dazzled them with a few magic tricks and easily persuaded them to be the fodder in their war (after all, muggles flocked to power like flies to shit). However, because Fudge had declared a state of war (combined with the fact that they were mere muggles), they were being deprived of standard wazarding rights of trial: no Veritaserum was to be administered, and the suspects were to be considered guilty until proven innocent (which there was no effective way to do without the Veritaserum).

Harry felt increasingly disgusted as he read on; he also felt increasingly surrounded by enemies. Who was the real target? Voldemort, who he was prophesized to kill or to be killed by, who most of the wizarding world hated and feared; or Fudge and the MoM, who had hindered Harry's every attempt to fight Voldemort, and who had the support of most of the wizarding word.

His peripheral vision alerted him to a sudden movement in Malfoy's direction, and he looked up in time to see the blond stalk away from his deserted table. Harry's temper was enticed by the article and he didn't feel particularly inclined to act reasonably. So he slammed the Daily Prophet down into Hermione's arms, distracting her from her bizarre mating ritual with Ron, and swiftly got up to follow the blond. There was too much of Harry's mind to have something unresolved with Malfoy/Diem/whoever. He wanted to be able to do something about something, and the exquisite Slytherin had been too much on his mind of late.

Out in the corridor he reflexively called out, "Malfoy!"

DM turned warily to look at the wild eyed Gryffindor, well aware that anything that had happened last night under the influence of alcohol may not survive to see the light of day. But Merlin, he nerves felt ragged and hereally wasn't in the mood for another uncomfortable conversation. "Potter."

Harry stopped half a meter from the DM, his hands clenching nervously, knowingly disregarding the screaming of his superego. He really wanted to act out, and while in previous years that may have led to a liberating brawl with Malfoy, there was something else he wanted to do now. "Can we talk privately?"

DM could sense that something was up, Potter's mannerisms were slightly off (not that the Gryffindor had been very predictable of late himself), and aggressive tension emanated from him in heavy waves. Still, he wasn't picking up on any hostility, just. . . grabbiness, and DM was sufficiently curious to be willing to indulge the other boy – for the time being. So he nodded, and followed Potter to a nearby corridor that would unlikely to receive any visitors during a Sunday.

DM leaned calmly, coolly, against the wall, and studied Potter through hooded eyes, while Harry stared at Malfoy as a starving wolf at a juicy steak. DM raised an eyebrow, "Well-"

He didn't get any further because suddenly desperate, wild animal Potter was on top of him, crushing him against the wall with his body, one hand clutching his robe and pulling him impossibly close, the other hand grabbing at the back of his head to pull him into a bruising, demanding kiss. Malfoy was fire and Harry wanted to feel the BURN.

It took less than three seconds for DM to react, pushing Harry away from him with all of his might so that the other boy stumbled backwards across most of the corridor. He barely had time to regain his footing before DM rushed him, furiously pushing him against the wall so that his skull his the stones excruciatingly and the wind was knocked from him, then roughly snatching Harry's tie and using it to force Harry's head higher than his normal height would allow. Then DM viciously backhanded him across the face and he cried out in pain and relief.

The back of his head throbbed terribly, as did the left side of his face, and his vision blurred under the pressure of suffocation. But the pain felt like it was deserved, like being alive, which is more than can be said of children who had died in the attack, more than can be said of Cedric and Sirius and the rest of Voldemort's victims. It felt good to feel anything, he been so detached for months now. And if he focused, he could make out an ethereal pale face millimeters from his own, glaring cerulean eyes, thin pink lips. . .

A hateful hiss slid over him, and he welcome the words of revulsion. "Don't ever touch me like that, you pathetic excuse for a useless hero!"

Yes, that was it exactly. I am a pathetic excuse for a useless hero. I do nothing while people die all around me. I am a fraud and a failure. I obsess about you while children drop like flies. Show me, Malfoy, show me that hatred that is true and honest and real, show me, hurt me. . .

Consciousness began to waver. . .

DM's immediate reaction had been instinctual, but now the anger and fear and panic that coursed through him fell into sharp focus, and he reluctantly recognized that his awareness of those feeling brought control over them. Whatever he did to Potter now, he would be fully responsible for his own actions. But his mind didn't know how to deal with this situation any better than his instincts, and he became frozen in confusion and indecision. Potter wasn't even fighting back, he looked on the verge of passing out; what in the name of Merlin and Mordred was going on here? Had he been attacked, assaulted. . . kissed?

"I love that you always know where it hurts. . .," the lost boy murmured deliriously, eyes almost closed. He looked so young, so defenseless, so inoffensive. . .

DM let go of Harry's tie and quickly took a step back as the Gryffindor sagged to the floor. He glared resentfully down at the pathetic heap for several minutes until the air in Harry's lungs began to revive him; DM spent the time gathering scattered thoughts and figuring out what to say and how to deal with Potter's behavior. Eventually, Harry lifted his face up to blink at boy who had just suffocated him almost to death.

"Listen, Potter. . . Harry. I get that your life has been stressful. Fighting Voldemort every year is too much to demand of anyone. And I know you have some hero complex that makes you think you're responsible for the world, and if you're the only one that can save it, then maybe you are. But I can't help you, Potter. Not like this. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it to you." He had stared off sounding relatively composed, with a carefully controlled voice, but he was getting increasingly angry, and even a little hysterical as he continued. "Do you want me to hurt you? I'm sorry, but I've sworn off hurting people, as hypocritical as that may sound. Do you want me to have sex with you? I'm sorry, but I've also sworn off whoring myself for any reason. I hope that's not what you really wanted when you offered me that deal in the Infirmary, because I thought that you understood that I'm not that person anymore!"

DM stopped abruptly to take deep breaths and calm himself, only to realize that Harry had pulled his knees to his chest and was rocking himself from side to side Merlin. "Oh, Merlin, Potter. Don't cry."

This was getting way too stressful, DM didn't care that they were inside: he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a muggle lighter. He took a long drag, then sat himself on the ground half a meter from Harry. Harry raised his head after a couple of minute to reveal tearless, world weary eyes, then turned guiltily to DM. "I don't cry anymore., Mal-Diem, whoever you are. But I'm sorry, I really am. I'm just so confused and it hurts so much to feel so helpless; it hurts so much to hurt so little, if that makes any sense."

DM was no stranger to feeling helpless, so he nodded in understanding without looking at his distraught companion, who continued after a shaky breath, "I have no right to put you in the position that I did. You're right, I just did it so that you would reject me and hurt me. And I don't want sex, I don't even want to find you attractive, I don't think I even like you. I just need. . . help, I guess, and my stupid fucked up mind keeps on trying to convince me that you are the only one that can help."

DM took another long drag then looked warily, appraisingly, at Harry. Whatever strangeness the Gryffindor was babbling about, he had to admit that he felt an inexplicable chemistry as well. He didn't feel in a position to help anyone, but he found himself reluctant to abandon the tenuous connection that had developed between them. He turned away again, and puffed at his cigarette a couple more times.

"Okay, lets try that proposal you made in the Infirmary last week." Harry immediately tried to say something, but DM rushed on. "But with a few modifications. I'm not on your side, Harry, I'll take sides when I'm good and ready, if I ever am. I'm just going to help you for the time being. I'm pretty sure I can offer some valuable input into your DA classes, and some. . . unique insight into how the other side operates. In return, I want Granger to keep helping me with my studies. And in the interests of both parties, you can help me harness my powers by practicing with me twice a week."

DM stubbed out his cigarette, elegantly pushed himself to his feet, then looked down at Harry. He extended a hesitant hand to help him up. "And no more incidents like the one here today, deal?"

Harry smiled reluctantly. He felt emotionally drained and the numbness was returning, but it felt good to feel empty instead of on the verge of bursting. He was fearful of the future, uncertain about the wisdom of accepting the deal, and mistrustful of DM's reaction to his earlier rash and somewhat self-destructive behavior. Still, butterflies in his stomach indicated that his gut, at least, was pleased at the outcome. He reached out and allowed DM to help him up.

"Deal."

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I'm not entirely happy with the way this chapter turned out, but I think the HP/DM interaction was a bit doomed from its conception. I'm really not sure if there is a believable and/or graceful way to set things in motion. Oh well. PLEASE REVIEW, and stay interested, I have several interesting chapters coming up. Will update soon.


	16. It's Not Me

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Reviewers: THANK YOU! No long spiel this time. Though plz indulge my need to brag for a moment: I got a job, nahnee nahnee nah nah! Mwahahaha! Doesn't pay much, it's definitely exploitation of the worker, but who cares? I'm in no position to stand up for workers rights. . . I wish I was. . .

Ch. 16: It's Not Me

Harry and DM agreed to meet the next evening in the Room of Requirements (the direction to which Harry detailed) to make their first attempt at. . . whatever it was that they were attempting together. It would have to be late, because Mondays were the usual time for the Gryffindor team to practice Quidditch; and all plans were, of course, subject to DM not receiving a detention for the night (though still not a sure thing, the chances of that were much higher than they had been only two weeks earlier). For Harry, Mondays consisted of Charms, Potions, double Transfiguration, then Care of Magical Creatures.

Malfoy had a similar schedule, except that he took Divination instead of CoMC (and, on Wednesdays and Thursdays, took Arithmancy with Hermoine, whereas both Ron and Harry, who were only taking five classes to their six, had free periods). [A/N: I was getting a bit mixed up with the schedules, so I have posted a weekly calendar at the end of this chapter.] Malfoy had had virtually no interest in either Herbology or CoMC (or in plants or animals for that matter), as there was no immediately apparent advantage or relevance to the knowledge; DM hadn't actually formed his own opinions on the subjects, but he had figured at the beginning of the year that his life was in turmoil enough without trying to belatedly change specializations. Besides, he kinda liked all his classes, though one would never guess from his lack of attention.

Charms went the best, because it was first, and his attention reserves were full. He actually managed to take notes on most of the class, though there was extensive doodling from when the rest of the students had been trying the charms with their wands. His drawing was distracted, and he was a little upset to look down and realize that he had been sketching the kind of corpses that resulted from various curses. There was a skeleton, left over from a defleshing curse; a pile of ash from an incineration curse; the gaping, oozing wounds created by a bloodletting curse; and of course, the stiff, almost lifelike body of an Avada Kadavra victim.

Potions went satisfactorily as well, for several reasons, the most important being that most potions can be made without the use of overt magic, but also because Malfoy's talent for potions was ingrained beyond his personality; and, of course, it never hurt that Snape always went easy on him. If he could just pay attention long enough not to mess up, then it was easy. Though it was still a relatively big 'if': he had melted a number of cauldrons since the beginning of the school year, and had even blown up two, placing him about on par with Longbottom. Pansy, however, was there to talk him through it, not unlike how Granger had done with their homework, so they were actually able to earn 20 points for Slytherin for making the best potion. In a couple of facial expressions that had to go down in Slytherin history, DM had grinned like a fool, and even Professor Snape had looked benevolently pleased.

Lunch was manageable. In what was becoming a noticeable pattern, the deterioration of DM's attention and self-control didn't become pronounced until after lunch, and today the lucky class was: Double Transfiguration. Of all the teachers at Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall had the least sympathy for the boy. As far as she knew and was concerned, Draco Malfoy had either been driven mad by or was acting out because of the death of his father and the hospitalization of his mother. Until lately, she had been leaning in favor of mental instability, but his recent (and seemingly miraculous) improvement lent evidence to the other side; and McGonagall was not amused.

It was not unlike watching a train wreck. First she yelled at him for doodling (and rather obviously not paying attention), then she took ten points off for catching staring out the window (and even more obviously not paying attentions). Still, he almost made it to the end of the two hours when he found himself nodding off without even realizing it. One moment he was listening to her lecture about the dangers of changing living things into inanimate objects, then he was imaging turning her into something that couldn't talk, a large coat rack maybe, and then his mind just floated away. . .

THWACK! He cried out more in surprise than pain as McGonagall brought her wand down forcefully on his hand and he was startled out of reverie, only to get an almost immediate grasp on the situation. He looked up dejectedly at the strict woman glaring down at him. Oh no, please, please, I tried, I really did, please don't give me a detention. . .

"Too bad you couldn't wait another ten minutes to take your nap, Mr. Malfoy. Detention tonight, with me." And then she strode away, clearly not making much of her punishment; after all, what was one more detention to the boy? He had spent the majority of the evenings since the beginning of the year in detention with someone.

But this detention didn't feel like the others. DM felt that he had let himself down, and that he had let Potter down (yes, a quick glance over at Potter revealed a disappointed frown). It should have been a relatively easy task, right? Just avoid getting a detention? This failure far outweighed the earlier success in Potions, and DM spent the rest of the class berating himself for being so inept and useless. If he couldn't even bloody pay attention, what hope did he have to do magic?

Potter made to approach him while everyone was packing up their bags, but DM waved him off. He waited for the class to empty out then stood in front of the Professor's desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Malfoy?," McGonagall asked somewhat peevishly.

DM hated that it had come to this, but he tried desperately to keep the frustration out of his voice. "Please, Ma'am, don't make me serve the detention today. There is someone I'm supposed to meet tonight."

McGonagall looked down at her desk and began shuffling through the homework there. "Well, you should have thought of that before you fell asleep in class today."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I tried to pay attention, I really did." He tried not to beg, but a noticeable strain had manifested in his voice.

"Trying is not good enough, Mr. Malfoy." Still, he had never objected to a detention before (well, not since last year; the 'old' Malfoy had objected to every detention he had ever received), and the old woman was a little curious. So she looked up and peered at the pale boy before her. His hands were clasped before him, gripping each other so tightly that McGonagall could see the indentations of his fingernails digging into flesh. Indeed, his whole body was rigid with tension, so rigid that it looked as though he might start shaking from the pressure. McGonagall studied him for a moment, then decided to give him a chance to convince her. "Tell me, who are you so eager to meet with that would justify a decision to suspend your detention?"

DM relaxed slightly. "Potter, Ma'am."

Now McGonagall stared at him even more critically. "Potter? I hope this isn't a duel date."

"No, Ma'am. He's, uh, going to see if he can help with my magical performance. . . Either that or we're going to train together. It's a bit undetermined, if you know what I mean, Ma'am."

McGonagall took a moment longer to scrutinize the nervous young man before her. Perhaps she had been overly harsh on him. If he was willing to work with Potter, then maybe he really was trying, and perhaps so many of the nefarious qualities that had been attributed to him over the years didn't deserve as much weight as she had been giving them. Though she would never admit it outright, she was as guilty as most of the public of viewing Harry Potter as the Wizarding World's savior. Despite her valiant attempts (and largely successful) at impartiality, anyone who associated with the Boy-Who-Lived did deserve special consideration.

Finally, McGonagall nodded. "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. Your detention will be held tomorrow instead." Her decision was rewarded by a well heard sigh of relief and even a faint upturn of the lips. His thank you was packed with genuine gratitude and the old professor spared him a rare smile.

As he headed out of the classroom, she added, "Oh, and Mr. Malfoy. . ." He half turned around. "I hope things go well with Mr. Potter."

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Divination would have been a disaster if it had been any other class than Divination. DM didn't pay any attention at all, but he was too wound up to doze, and that was enough to coast through Trewlany's ramblings and half-assed predictions.

After class he ran up to the Owlrey to send a note to Potter telling him that they were back on for that evening. His first instinct was to use his Loki, his petite and elegant Northern Hawk Owl; but then a mischievous smirk materialized on his face and he turned to Thor, his gargantuan Great Gray Owl. With a wingspan of 142 cm [A/N: about 55 inches] and a height of 70 cm [A/N: 27 inches], Thor was used almost exclusively for long distance trips and for carrying heavy packages that would weigh down any other bird. Potter would never know what had hit him. A plan began to take shape in DM's mind.

Thor was told to wait to deliver his scroll wait at sunset, when most of the students, Potter included, would be at dinner. Sure enough, around 5:45, Thor swooped down on the Gryffindor table to the startled screams of many of the younger kids. He landed with great force right in front of Potter, stepping in his plate and knocking over several glasses of pumpkin juice. Harry hurriedly retrieved the scroll from the extended leg amidst the outraged shouts of his housemates. Ron was cursing the fact that once again he was covered in sticky juice, and Hermione was trying impatiently to shoo away the large owl. Thor took off the moment he was free of his light burden, a little peeved for having been put in such demeaning position anyway. Harry read the letter then glanced over at the Slytherin table, where everyone (fully recognizing the distinctive bird) was laughing hysterically. Though not quite as uninhibited as his housemates, DM was also looking markedly amused.

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After Quidditch practice, Harry had to rush through a shower to make it to the Room of Requirements by 9 pm. When he arrived, DM was already there, holding his wand with some trepidation, and looking disheveled and frustrated enough to suggest that he had already tried to use it several times. The room, on the other hand, had decided to equip itself with padded walls.

Harry took one look at him and his unsightly piece, and blurted, "I really wasn't thinking that this would involved your wand."

DM sighed, glancing longingly at his disfigured magical stick. "No, I wasn't expecting you to think that. I just wish. . . I mean, it would be nice to be able to use it."

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "As you are probably aware, normality is not for the likes of us." Though in truth, he was feeling significantly more normal than he had the day before. It was a relief not to be so. . . out of control, and for a moment he empathized with DM's predicament. "Look., about yesterday, I'm sor-"

"Don't," DM interrupted tiredly, almost as though he was reading Harry's thoughts. "I of all people am in no position to judge irrational behavior. I don't apologize for my lunacy, don't apologize for yours. Besides, I got you back at dinner."

Harry smiled shyly at him. "Thank you. For taking it so well, I mean."

"Think nothing of it. Now, shall we get to work?"

Harry wouldn't have minded a bit more chitchat, perhaps the opportunity to express his admiration for Malfoy's impressive owl, but he nodded anyway. "Ok. What you got?"

DM smiled cynically. "Not much. A wand that backfires, and some wandless magic that manifests when I get really pissed off."

Harry had been logically considering Malfoy's predicament for most of the day, and the first question he had come up with had been, "Well, you obviously didn't have the wand problem before this summer. Were you able to do any wandless magic before?"

DM shook his head. "Not a single iota."

"Well, I don't mean to pry, but it might be helpful if I knew how what had happened had contributed to miraculous new ability," Harry responded with mild sarcasm.

"And I can honestly say that I don't know what the connection between those events and my miraculous new ability is," DM retorted, looking very much as though he was unwilling to say any more on the subject.

Harry decided not to press the issue at this early point in their working relationship. "Okay. Well, I guess the first step would be to piss you off then."

DM rolled his eyes. "That shouldn't be too hard."

Harry wanted to giggle at the near joke, though it didn't quite warrant a laugh, and Harry was too much of 'man' to actually giggle. "No, it shouldn't be, you ugly albino ferret. . . You're so pale, I bet you have pimple puss instead of blood."

They regarded each other stoically for a ridiculous moment before DM dignified the insult with a deadpan response. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Harry couldn't hold back his laughter this time, and he loudly gave sound to his amusement. Even DM chuckled a little. To be honest, he was rather relieved (and a little surprised) that the previous day's tension had evaporated so easily. "Do I have your permission to seriously piss you off then?," Harry finally asked when he was able to do so without a goofy smile of his face.

DM regarded him warily for a moment, then nodded.

Harry's normally benevolent expression mutated into something bitter and wrathful. "Good, because you are a no good piece of Slytherin trash, nothing more than your father's spawn and as deserving of your mother's fate as she was. I'd kill you just as soon as I would kill Voldemort, and twice as easily. And I would feel good about it, because your soul is required in hell. [A/N: last six words must be credited to 'New Jack City']"

Harry was himself a little shocked at the raft of hatred that had spilled so readily from his lips; it had been unexpectedly easy to get in touch with his dark, spiteful side. DM, on the other hand, was as tense as guitar string and obviously well on his way to being royally enraged. "Continue," he growled challengingly.

"Nobody gives a shit about you, MALFOY. You are no one, less than no one. You are your father, he might as well not even be dead, you have inherited all his money, and the guilt for all his crimes. You talentless, useless, harmless, pathetic excuse of a wizard-"

Sure enough, Harry could feel the shift in the atmosphere, as magical energy pooled around DM in direct connection to his mounting fury; so Harry pressed on. If he had been thinking a little more, and feeling a little less, he would have been rather horrified by the perverse and vicarious pleasure he was receiving from the poison that was flowing so effortlessly. "And did I mention what a disgusting product of incest you are? Oh, I didn't, well let me elaborate on how your mother was such a whore-"

He didn't get any further. DM lurched towards him, face contorted unattractively with rage, but he didn't even manage to touch the Gryffindor before a magical wave as solid as a wall slammed into his target, throwing him clear across the room to slam into the padded wall. The stuffing saved him from a fate worse than a mere winding, but DM was physically advancing on him, and he used the opportunity to gasp as loudly as possible, "Mal-Diem! Control! Try to cast a spell!"

For a long moment DM was clearly torn between uninhibited fury and a more restrained course of action, his hands clenching spasmodically and his teeth bared ferally. Finally, something rational clicked into place and he twisted around and roared, "Exuro!"

Most of the adjacent wall immediately burst into angry flames.

Harry's mouth dropped open, and DM's rage died in the face of such a shock, and they both stood staring at the conflagration for nearly fifteen seconds before Harry snapped to and shouted, "Finite Incantatem!"

The vigorous flames took the rest of the minute to subside. Harry was eventually left staring at DM, as the latter continued to stare unbelievably at the burnt remains of the wall.

Wow. Holy bleeding wow! He had done that! Slowly, DM turned an unreadable face to Harry. "I guess you really know where it hurts too. . ."

Harry grasped for something to say, but nothing was forthcoming. Slowly, an inscrutable grin manifested and DM leaped into the air and gave a loud and very unMalfoyish whoop. "Bloody hell! Did you see that!? Talentless?! Harmless?! Take that, Potter!"

Harry found himself grinning at DM's jubilation, as DM laughed loudly, then hollered in release. "Merlin be damned, Potter! That was great!"

"Yes, fabulous. So now we know you can defend yourself if you are pissed off to the point of madness beforehand, which we kinda already knew. But can you call that power without that somewhat inconvenient rage?," Harry posited reasonably.

DM sobered at the thought. He almost immediately tried recapturing his anger to fuel another spell. He turned towards Harry, who flinched as he yelled, "Stupify!"

Harry felt quite stiff for a few seconds, but the effect quickly faded. He grimaced, "Sorry. It almost worked for a few seconds, but not really."

DM looked mildly disappointed, then shrugged. "Oh well, I can hardly expect miracles on the first day. It's taken months to get me this far."

Harry approached the Slytherin; it felt so natural to admire the blond wonder. "I agree. Rome wasn't built in a day and all that rot. That was still pretty impressive."

DM was beaming proudly. "You seem to be awfully impressed with me lately, Potter," he teased, a little shyly perhaps?

"I am impressed with you," the Gryffindor replied earnestly. "And it's Harry. . . Diem." He almost immediately berated himself. Merlin, he had hoped that he had gotten over this. . . But Malfoy, Diem, whoever, had been quite impressive in his rage, magic flowing uninhibitedly, body straining, eyes flashing and wild. . . Stop!

DM wasn't sure how to interpret Harry's words, but he decided (wisely, and in both their interests) to take them without any of their larger context and implications. "Yes, it is. . . Harry."

The rest of the session was spent with Harry showing off his Patronus and various other spells; and, towards the end, with some conversation.

"What did you tell your goupies about that swelling on your cheek?," DM asked casually, smoking a cigarette lazily as they sat against the padding opposite the scorched wall. There was no trace of remorse, as he honestly did not feel bad about reacting to Harry's attack (advance?) the way he had.

Harry reached a hand up to the tender side of his face, and he flushed a little with embarrassment. "I told them that I was practicing that engorgement spell we're practicing in Charms. It backfired, exploded, and threw me to the ground."

DM smiled wryly. "I doubt that's even possible. Surely Granger didn't believe that excuse."

Harry mirrored his wry smile. "No, I don't think she did."

"Smart girl."

There was a prolonged silence in which DM smoked and Harry took sidelong glances at the Slytherin. God, how he wished he wasn't so. . . appealing.

Finally, DM stubbed out his cigarette and he tuned his body so that he was grasping his knees, leaning his right side against the padded wall, and studying Harry. "Where did that incest comment come from, Potter?," he eventually asked guardedly.

Harry blinked; he had forgotten that he had said that, and he certainly hadn't intended to. "I dunno," he blurted. "I just tried to think of the most insulting things that I could." He had no idea how convincing he sounded, and DM wasn't sure he believed him.

"Do you know something I don't?," he asked with trepidation, not really wanting to know if there was another issue to add to his currently rather hefty collection.

"No more than what you know that I don't," Harry finally added with some hesitance, but the truth was somewhat obvious from his hedging answer.

DM quashed the panic that wanted to flare up and forced himself not to care. "I don't give a damn. I hate this disgusting body anyway. Its problems aren't mine."

Harry now scooted his body around so that he was facing DM, rather concerned by the handsome boy's response. DM's eyes were closed and he was rubbing his face with his palms. Damn him for saying this . . . "I. . . I don't think your body is disgusting. It's, uh, beautiful even."

DM opened his eyes, and the expression on his face was so mournful that Harry immediately regretted his words. "So have said most of this school, and Voldemort, and many of his death eaters. . . but Harry, it's not me."

Harry nodded slowly, for he did understand. "And the Boy-Who-Lived. It's not me either."

DM smiled sadly, and the two boys leaned their heads against the wall in a minute of silence for the boys they weren't.

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Mon: single Charms, single Potions, double Transfiguration, single Divination :: (Gryffindor Quidditch)

Tues: double Potions, single Transfiguration, single Divination, single Arithmancy :: (DA)

Wed: single potions, single Divination, double Charms, single Arithmancy :: ('remedial Potions')

Thurs: double Divination, double Arithmancy, single DADA :: (Slytherin Quidditch)

Fri: single potions, single Arithmancy, double DADA, single Transfiguration

Sat: sometimes Quidditch games

For Harry: Care of Magical Creatures instead of Divination, no Arithmancy

For Hermione: Care of Magical Creatures instead of Divination

PLEASE REVIEW. Constructive criticism is appreciated, testaments to the fact that you are reading are welcome. Sorry for a boring couple of opening paragraphs, but I had some difficulty transitioning. More of other characters coming up.


	17. DM, the Consultant

Disclaimer: I am making no profits of the property of JK Rowling.

Reviews: Thank you. SUGAR-PLUM-FAERIE, I will be addressing most of your concerns in the soon future. As for your curiosity, I was raised in Italy (UN brat), but I did spend a year abroad in London. The UK rocks! I have traveled all around England, Ireland, and Scotland, and had a great time everywhere! You guys really know how to party! Much friendlier than over in the US. Though I am being overly negative, the US definitely has its share of good times. The US government is hardly representative of its party hardy populace. We are, after all, all human beings, and most human beings know a good time when it slaps itself in their faces! Rock on! (Yikes, do I ever feel cheesy, but that's what you get for posting personal questions and comments). Anyhoo, on with the show. . .

Ch. 17: DM, the Consultant

Tuesday kicked off with breakfast as usual in the Great Hall, where Hermione was talking about her discussion with Padma and Luna concerning the DA lesson they had planned for that evening. Padma Patil was apparently going to show off the various appearance-altering charms that she had perfected, while Luna was going to demonstrate some of her most effective memory charms.

"You should've been there, Harry," Ron said with obvious amusement. "The nutjob and the ditz show, it was hysterical."

"No, it wasn't," Hermione contradicted irritably. "It was living proof that intelligence does not equal depth."

Ron laughed at that, and Harry chuckled a little, but he was too preoccupied to really join in. He hated to interrupt their banter, especially as the last two days since the Slytherin party had been particularly awkward between them, but something was weighing heavily on his mind. "Guys, where's Dumbledore?"

His two friends' heads jerked toward the teachers' table where the Headmaster could almost always be found. Hermione turned back to Harry with a distressed expression on her face. "Oh no. Do you think it has something to do with the massacre at the kindergarten?," she whispered.

"Or maybe something to do with the Order?," Ron added conspiratorially.

Harry looked back and forth between his two friends. He had asked them a question, and they had shot back their own questions, as though he had any answers. Merlin, he wished knew something. He just shook his head. "I don't know. Damn! How'm I supposed to defeat Voldemort when they won't even tell me what's going on?!"

Seamus, Neville, Dean, Ginny, and a few of the other nearby Gryffindors looked up worriedly at the fact that Harry had violated the unspoken agreement to pretend that nothing serious was going on. But something serious was going on and it was driving Harry to distraction.

Luckily, Ron had become an expert over the years at distracting Harry from the stress of his daily life, so he eventually broke the quiet, "So, uh, how did your meeting with Malfoy go?" There was a slightly hostile edge to his question, but he had enough of a sense of hypocrisy not to openly hate the Slytherin that had invited them to the party that he had so thoroughly enjoyed not just two days previously. (To his horror, he had actually greeted Crabbe, his eating challenger, outside of Transfiguration the day before; incidentally, Crabbe had won the contest, and after witnessing the large boy's astonishing capacity for ingestion, Ron hadn't the heart, or stomach, to be sore: Crabbe had clearly deserved his victory, and Ron had no particular desire to be any more piggy than he already was).

Harry blushed uncharacteristically. "It went okay. I insulted him and got him pissed off enough to send a wall up in flames."

Hermione looked thoughtful and Ron whistled softly. "Wow, I wish I could go all wandless just by getting mad. . . hey, you need any help? I'm sure I could do a good job pissing him off."

Hermione indulged herself with the rare giggle, and Harry smiled. "As tempting as that offer is, somehow, I don't think it would be a good idea."

Ron and Hermione paired up during Potions, leaving Harry to choose either Padma or someone from another house. After briefly meeting eyes with DM, who was still paired with Parkinson, he sat next to Padma. The class was characterized by furtive glances at DM, who was honestly trying to dedicate his attention to the potion instructions Pansy was reading off. Harry couldn't have known that the main distraction DM was warding off was the bizarre memories of the last few days, most of which featured one Harry Potter. As it was, they only met each other's eyes once during the class, both anticipating the projected arena of their next interaction: the DA session scheduled for that evening.

During lunch, DM ingested a total of three cups of coffee. He hated the foul tasting beverage, but he was absolutely determined not to fall asleep during Transfiguration after lunch. Sure enough, he spent the entire hour and half clenching his teeth and having to pee. He found himself jutting his hand skywards to obsessively answer every question, even when he didn't know the answer. Though initially pleased by his enthusiasm (which outweighed even Granger's) McGonagall eventaully told him to stop responding to questions to which he clearly didn't know the answer. He spent the rest of the class harassing Blaise, who looked distinctly displeased after the fifth poke. Harry, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly irritated by the jealousy that flared with every poke he witnessed. He, at least, had mastered the art of not paying attention while appearing to be completely enraptured. It seemed pretty obvious to him that the key was no to twitch, and turn, and look around, and why was Malfoy/Diem looking so appetizing even when he was clearly behaving so neurotically?

After dinner, Harry sat in the library with Hermione and Ron, trying to do homework, while DM was subjugated to a detention with McGonagall. He fell asleep a total of three times, but he also managed to complete two backlogged assignments that he owed her. So she let him leave with only a severe bitching out.

What a bitch, he thought emotionlessly before heading off to the Room of Requirements only fifteen minutes after the DA's scheduled commencement. He sneaked into the room to find thirty something students watching Padma Patil change her appearance into a white chick. . . then into an ugly white chick. . . then into an ugly white guy. . .

At which point people began to be aware that Hogwart's most unpopular Slytherin was attempting to blend into the shadows and watch the lesson.

"Hey!," Neville accused indignantly. "What's HE doing here?!" Thirty something faces turned to glower spitefully at Malfoy, who readily glared back with matching dislike. Within seconds Zacharias Smith, Neville Longbottom, and several other DA members less clued into Harry's recent activities had wands out and were pointing them aggressively at Malfoy. Millicent Bulstrode and Theodore Nott were had both scrambled over to DM's side and were currently brandishing their wands in defense of their leader. In the meantime, DM was looking very tense, borderline hostile, and Harry (as well as Hermione) faintly registered the telltale sign of mounting magical energy.

"Everyone just calm down!," Harry shouted authoritatively before events got out of hand. Attention was shifted to him, even though no one lowered their wands and the level of magical energy in the room remained volatile. "I invited him. This is a school endorsed club, and so we can't deny any student who wants to participate. Furthermore, it is semi-public knowledge that Malfoy here has been rejected by Voldemort, and while it may be a trick, I am willing to give him a benefit of the doubt, as I am willing to give most of you a degree of my trust. Mafloy is just sitting in this time as a consultant. Given his connections, he might actually have some valuable advise on the subject of defeating Death Eates."

Harry finished his speech, and waited for a tense moment before his DA members warily lowered their wands; Bulstrode and Nott did the same, and the magical tension in the room gradually began to fade. Harry gave DM a weak smile before everyone settled in to pay attention to the rest of Padma's demonstration and instruction.

Then about ten minutes later an unwelcome deja-vu took place: Gregory Goyle clopped his way into the Room of Requirements with such a lack of subtlety that again many of the DA members had their wands out pointed in the direction of the new Slytherin, who (though bewildered) soon found himself defended not only by DM, Bulstrode, and Nott, but also Luna Lovegood, who promptly began to shout frantically, "Don't cast! I invited him! We're, uh, friends! We're trying to convert people, remember?! Not just kill them!"

No one knew what to say before her hysteria, and everyone lowered their wands more in deference to her, uh, enthusiasm, than in conviction of her argument. And so the DA session progressed, much to the stress of everyone involved. It eventually ended with twenty minutes practicing memory and appearance charms, while DM watched with no small amount of dismay. When it was followed by ten minutes of general dueling, his expression turned to one of complete horror.

Harry walked over to him grimacing. "Are they that bad?"

DM didn't react for a moment, before finally turning to the Gryffindor. "Harry, they're terrible. Hopeless even. Mordred, look at Longbottom. And I hate so say this about one of my friends, but Greg's hardly any better off."

Harry looked over at Neville, only to feel embarrassment at the sight before him: the awkward boy had apparently tried an appearance charm, only to be reinvented with a second, not quite identical head. Both heads were crying to his partner (who was on the floor laughing hysterically) to fix him. Goyle on the other hand was sitting catatonic on the floor, having apparently cast a complete memory erasing charm on himself. Nott was kneeling over him, vainly trying to figure out what had gone wrong, and Luna was watching worriedly from a distance.

"But the trophy definitely goes to your two sidekicks."

Oh Merlin, Harry really didn't want to see this one. Sure enough, the two had made a complete spectacle of themselves. Hermione was looking infuriated, sporting a pair of massive, size D breasts (courtesy of Ron) that had ripped her robes; meanwhile, Ron was crawling around on his hands and knees, barking like a dog (courtesy of who-knows-what kind of retaliatory memory charm of Hermione's). Oh, and there was the prize shot: canine Ron trying to hump Hermione's leg and her shrieking, "I hate men! I hate men!"

Trying to be optimistic, Harry gestured over to Millicent and Parvati who were actually managing a respectable and ominously realistic duel. DM snorted. "Well, you know what they say, every thorn has its rose."

Harry gaped at the closed-off Slytherin. "They do not say that!," he accused good naturedly, then laughed. "Though that's probably the first time anyone every compared Bulstrode to a rose!"

DM just rolled his eyes.

At 10:15 Harry called it quits, and he, Hermione, Padma, and Luna went around the room lifting the various charms that had been misplaced on or were simply unremoved from various students. When Luna had lifted the curse from Greg, and then sometime later Parvarti had lifted a different curse from Theodore, they joined DM and Millicent, and then the group of Slytherins left, with Harry and DM trading faint nods of farewell.

Despite his usual metal exercises, Harry's night was plagued by unusual dreams.

The location was a very posh casino, and he was dressed a smart tuxedo and introducing himself as, "Bond, Harry Bond," to a voluptuous blonde with striking blue eyes and an oddly familiar face. Damn, she was hot in that clingy blue silk gown!

Lipstick smiled invitingly and elegant fingers grasped his. "Draconian Measures, at your service, but my friends call me Diem. . . you know, like Carpe Diem." While in the waking world such behavior would have been the height of ridiculousness, it only made dream Harry want to jump the luscious babe even more.

"Hmmm, don't mind if I do," Harry leered, pulling the blonde into his arms and kissing those inviting lips. She made no protest, but pulled away after a few seconds. She used a perfectly manicured thumb to wipe away the lipstick, then smiled secretly.

"I've got something you might be interested in, Mr. Bond," she stated invitingly.

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

With a flash of perfect teeth, Draconian Measures pulled up her purse so that it was lodged between them. She unfastened the clasp, opened it, then peered inside. Harry followed her gaze to a see. . .

"What is that?," he whispered huskily.

Now she was smirking, and leaned forward so that her breasts were firmly against his body and she whispered seductively in his ear, "C4. Heavy duty muggle explosives. Enough to bring down this whole establishment."

The green eyed Bond jerked away from the pale beauty and asked critically, "And what do you plan to do with it?"

In an instant she was once again pressed up against him, smelling alluringly like coconut. "You see those three men over my shoulder at the high stakes table?"

Harry's arm creeped up to caress her smooth, bare back, and looked over at the indicated table, where three conspicuous and very familiar men sat. One had long, platinum blond hair and had a cruel, calculating sneer plastered to his face (he also appeared to be cheating at cards, though Harry had no idea how he knew that). The second was a greasy, fat, unpleasant looking man that Bond vaguely recognized, who seemed to be pandering to the third man: a hideous, red-eyed, snake man who emanated power and evil and was decked out in dark red velvet, crocodile boots, and the most hideously gaudy blingbling he had ever seen (including a gold necklace as thick as a bicycle chain from which hung a gold and diamond 'V' the size of a small hand).

Draconian Measures brought her face over to interrupt his view. When she spoke, her voice was solemn and her expression was dangerous, but she had never looked as sexy. "Those men are none other than the notorious and infamous Axis of Evil: Money Malfoy, Influence Fudge, and Power Riddle. . . and, in a glorious twist of fate, I am going to kill all of them with this simple, muggle-made bomb."

Gazing deep into the sincere, if somewhat fanatical glow of her eyes, Harry Bond grasped his hands over those thin fingers that held the bomb He nodded. "But one last kiss, in the name of love."

Measures looked deeply into the forest jade of his eyes, then leaned into him and they kissed desperately, passionately, in the name of love. She tasked so good, like sugar and vanilla. . . And that was how they died, when a globe of fiery, explosive death erupted from the heart held tightly between them.

Harry awoke with a start, sitting straight up in his bed with a racing pulse, immediately plagued by the flooding memories of his dream. He knew without even thinking about it that his subconscious was trying to tell him something, something important, but as soon as he tried to revisit the dream, he became too confused to know anything from anything.

Was it telling him that he had a thing for Malfoy? He knew that already. . . Was it telling him that Malfoy was against Voldemort? He knew that already too. . .And Merlin only knows what it was trying to say about his sexuality. He had never been into a bloke before, while there had been several chicks of passing interest. Was he bi? Or was it just Malfoy? 'In the name of love'? Surely he wasn't in love with Malfoy. . .

Maybe the dream wasn't about Malfoy. Maybe it was talking about Fudge being a threat, but he knew that already too, didn't he? Was Fudge in league with Voldemort? Was Lucius Malfoy still alive? Surely not. . . And what about that the bomb? Would that work?

He rubbed his face and reached over to his clock to bring it closed enough to his face to see the numbers: six thirty. Not too early to get up then.

Harry was at breakfast so early that he was the only person at his table; indeed, the only house that sported anyone in the Great Hall at 6:50 was Ravenclaw, and the handful of them were staring unenthusiastically at textbooks. Students began shuffling in over the next forty minutes, and Hermione eventually arrived, tailed by Ron who was vigorously apologizing for the events of the night before. The mail arrived just as Hermione took a seat between Harry and Ginny, forcing Ron to sit across the table from her and give her his most pathetic puppy eyes. Harry grimaced at their behavior and reached for Hermione's Daily Prophet. Sure enough, there another unpleasant Daily Prophet headline:

FUDGE AND DUMBLEDORE MEET WITH MUGGLE AUTHORITIES

Minister of Magic Fudge, attended at his request by Albus Dumbledore, met with muggle authorities yesterday concerning recent incidents of muggles perpetrating violence against the wizarding community, with suspected links to You-Know-Who. Adrian Ruby and Patricia Thatcher, two squibs acting as liaisons from the muggle Ministry of the Interior, were initially appointed for their perceived impartiality in dealing with relations between muggles and the wizarding community, but evidence came forth in their meetings with the Minister that their impartiality has been compromised, as they falsely accused the Minister of doing nothing while the muggles of Great Britain were being victimized by You-Know-Who and on-going hate attacks. Since the brutal attack on our kindergarten last Sunday, vigilantism has sharply increased as wizards and witches try to protect themselves against growing danger and hostility from muggles. . .

The article got worse and worse, emphasizing the peril presented to the wizarding community, mostly by muggles, but also by Voldemort, and then describing in detail the suspiciously fascist policies Fudge was forcing on the general populace in the name of safety. After the Umbridge debacle the year before, Dumbledore and Hogwarts were relatively untouchable, but they had also been squeezed out of the news to a large degree. Dumbledore's name was dropped from time to time, in relation to little of significance, and The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived had been completely absent from the headlines since the incident at the Ministry at the end of the last school year. While Harry appreciated this fact, it was also unnerving. Had Fudge decided that if he couldn't discredit Harry Potter, then ignoring him would allow him to be forgotten amidst all the panic and deaths? Harry frowned at the thought: no matter who else forgot about him, Voldemort would never forget.

Gripping the newspaper brutally in his fists, a memory flashed though his mind and he turned to Hermione to interrupt the bizarre staring contest she was having with Ron. Merlin, how he wished those two would just get together and stop being so obnoxiously besotted. "Listen, Hermione, I've got a question. Is there any reason why a muggle bomb wouldn't work against Voldemort?"

Hermione was taken aback by the question, blinking at him for a moment in surprise, then frowned in order to give it due consideration. Meanwhile, Ron asked, "Bomb? Like a stink bomb? How would that help?"

Harry couldn't help a wry grin. "No, Ron. Not a stink bomb. Muggles make these bombs that explode with a lot of energy and destroy everything within a large radius. They even make ones big enough to destroy whole cities, kill millions of people. Scientists say they have enough bombs now to blow up the entire world seven times over."

Ron looked a little horrified. "Again, not something I would mention to muggle-haters. Fuel and all that."

Then Hermione spoke. "I don't see why not. He probably has wards against outside energy blasts, but if you could get a bomb inside his wards. . . But Harry, where are you going to get a hold of a bomb?"

Harry shrugged despondently. "I dunno. It was just a thought."

There was a pensive silence in which the voices of the school around became suddenly more audible. Finally, Harry decided that he would rather be alone by himself than in the company of others, so got up to leave, slapping the crumbled newspaper down on the table. "You two might want to take a look at this."

His friends tried to object, but he left anyway, heading off to Potions a good half hour early. As fate would have it, there was already someone there, hunched over book as though he was blind. The Slytherin's hair was once again in twisted rows tied off at the base of his neck, but the semblance to the hot chick from his dream was obvious, and he found himself feeling rather flustered. . . He also found himself walking over to the oblivious boy and then sitting next to him. Only then did DM looked up and cock a scarred eyebrow. Making contact was like a breath of fresh air, inspiring Harry to throw away (for the time being) all his morose thoughts about Voldemort and bombs and massacres of children.

"Whatcha reading, Diem?," Harry asked cheerfully (annoyingly emphasizing DM's name), throwing himself full force into his false alter ego who basically acted like a seven year old; but at least he was carefree and actually capable of having fun. DM was beginning to get used to the fact that Harry Potter was a tad manic depressive, oscillating between anger and determination, gravity and responsibility, humor and optimism, and desperation and recklessness. He was better at hiding it than DM was at hiding his prolonged lapses of attention and insane fits of rage, but DM was showing improvement, while Harry's troubles looked to only be getting worse. Harry Potter was strong, no doubt, but was he strong enough to take on Voldemort? Strong enough to take on the world?

A rare wave of sympathy prompted him to smile kindly at Harry, eliciting a large grin (and several inappropriate thoughts) from the Gryffindor. DM closed the ancient book on his desk, and moved it so that Harry could read the title, "A History of the Science of Magic, by Bunnag Flopperhop." Harry frowned cutely, "Whatcha reading that for?"

DM shrugged and inspected the book. "Dumbledore told me that I would find some answers in it, and from the looks of the contents and introduction, I figure it's about why magic is stronger in some than in others. Ollivander said that the strength of my magic is what keeps shorting out my wand, so I'm hoping it will explain that. And there's a section on wandless magic that I've tried to read, but it's terribly boring, and detailed, and scientific. . . I honestly can't get more than a page without falling asleep – right on top of this dirty, smelly book I might add. I've woken up like a dozen times with the literary filth of the ages smeared on my face."

Towards the end, DM had begun to rant somewhat endearingly, and Harry's grin returned, along with the impulse to plant a big smooch on his ex-rival. Somehow, though, in this mode such desires were less worrisome. "You want me to help? Or maybe Hermione? She's really good at that stuff," Harry offered.

Harry tried (and failed) to appear as though he was taking the matter seriously, as DM looked at him critically, trying to decide what the chances were that there was something in the book that he didn't want Harry and Granger to know. And if there was, was letting them help him worth that risk? Finally, DM looked back the old book and rubbed his temples, "Let me think about it."

Harry felt a loss when DM broke eye contact, and continued to watch the alluring boy as he rubbed his forehead, then his eyes, seeming rather tired. He didn't realize how long he had been staring until DM cautiously glanced back at him. "Stop looking at me like that," he muttered nervously.

Harry blushed, but naively assumed that his true feelings weren't obvious. "Like what?," he asked breathlessly, hypnotized by oceanic eyes.

DM forced his voice to harden, "Like you want to kiss me."

Harry jerked back as though he had been slapped in the face, happy Harry instantly gone, replaced by defensive Harry. "I don't want-"

DM's whole body was tense now as he interrupted, "I know. You don't like guys, and you don't like me. It's just that this body is so. . . beautiful." He spat the last word out like it was disgusting. "Don't worry, Potter, Harry, you're gardly the first to get suckered in, and while Malfoy would have used that to his advantage, I have stopped the sordid situation on my end by closing down shop. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Harry's face was burning with humiliation and resentment at Malfoy for so unnecessarily doing this to him, but he nodded. He noticed finally that a number of students had arrived for class, and were giving the two of them strange glances, so he angrily stood to find a seat on the Gryffindor side of the room, but then a thin hand shot out and gripped his wrist. "No, Harry, we have an agreement. You're going to help me, and I'm going to help you, remember? So what you're going to do is sit here and learn not to give attractive people ANY power over you, got that?"

Again, resentment flared at being told what to do, by Malfoy no less, but he found himself sitting back down anyway, because. . . because he wanted to stay. DM, for his part, was grim and surly, but also determined. He was not going to let his stupid fucking body ruin anything; he and Potter were going to establish a working relationship, superficial attraction, volatile magic, and emotional instability be damned!

The next three hours were characterized by slightly scandalized looks from just about everyone (Hermione being the notable exception), and by an aloof and professionally conducted potion brewing as Harry strived to be as cold to Malfoy as Malfoy clearly was capable of being towards him. He berated himself for trying to be friends with the blond menace, and even tried to convince himself that Malfoy really hadn't changed at all. By the time they were cleaning away their ingredients, he had worked up quite a hatred for his supposedly former rival.

That was when DM stopped Harry's furious wiping with a gentle hand on his wrist, and he wrenched away from the touch to look up at DM's serious face. "Demonized me enough, Harry?," he whispered softly. "It's not that I want to go back to being your enemy, 'cause I don't, but for your own sake, keep some perspective. Keep that hidden sliver of hate. It will help you stay sharp and strong. . . and independent of the influence of others. You want me to point out your weaknesses, well, I'm telling you now that a penchant for pretty faces is a particularly easy weakness to exploit."

DM looked just a little sad, then the impression was lost when he gave Harry a faint, if reassuring smile, and leaving Harry's confused about the whole situation.

For the first time in Harry's potions career, he received full marks for the potion he had worked on.

Sorry that this chapter is a bit boring and long winded, but I need some transitional material. More excitement on the way! PLEASE REVIEW! Advice, comments, questions, anything!


	18. Answers No One Wants to Hear

Disclaimer: I have no legal rights to anything, not even my life.

Reviewers: THANK YOU for your ongoing support and inspiration. MYR, I agree that there is little room for my political views have no place in my story, and I am sorry I subjected people to them – I was responding to flame. To you, all I can say is, having and standing up for political beliefs is not infantile, and I rather think that the opposite is true. But the content of my comments shouldn't matter, all that is important in the story. If you don't want to hear what I have to say (which a perfectly valid desire), simply skip over my blabbering to the main event. Now, on with the show. . .

Ch. 18: Answers No One Wants to Hear

[A/N: Still Wednesday]

After dinner, Hermione and Harry went to the library to do homework. Harry would have much rather have been out with Ron, Seamus, and Dean playing football (Dean had managed to foster some interest in the game after years of advocating its greatness), but he had 'remedial potions' that evening and so was stuck doing homework earlier than he would have wanted. It turned out to be a good thing though, as DM came in about twenty minutes later and nervously sat himself across from his two favorite Gryffindors.

"Hey."

"Hi," they chorused, both a little surprised, Harry a little wary.

DM acted as if the incident in potions had never taken place, and he pointedly made eye contact with both of them. "I have decided to take you up on your offer, Potter."

"What offer?," Hermione asked immediately; Harry himself was a little confused.

DM reached into his book bag and retrieved the ancient book he had been reading that morning. "Potter said that you two would help me get through this debilitatingly dull read that Dumbledore recommended."

Harry didn't know how to respond, but Hermione's curiosity was immediately ignited and she greedily reached over for the tomb and opened it up to its contents. DM leaned over and pointed to chapter four, entitled 'Wandless Magic'. "Dumbledore said that this book might provide me with some answers to my, uh, current difficulties. I would imagine that this is the chapter he was referring to, but I can't get through it, even though I had Blaise cast an English Modernization charm on it. It's worse that our Arithmancy text book."

Hermione flipped to chapter four and muttered, "That's hard to believe."

Harry looked at her for a moment in astonishment, then laughed. Hermione turned to face him. "What? Even I can detect a truly boring book when I see it."

Harry tried to stifle his laughter, but just ended up snorting unattractively, causing DM to smile faintly. "Don't you start," Hermione warned him.

"I wouldn't think of it," DM replied seriously, but Hermione had already launched herself into the ancient text. Both Harry and DM watched her attentively, putting most of their effort into not glancing at each other despite the palpable connection between them. Every couple of paragraphs or so, she would summarize the contents: it was remotely interesting, but not particularly relevant, describing the various advantages of wanded magic. After about fifteen minutes, Harry resumed doing his homework, while DM became so still that Harry suspected that he might have actually managed to fall asleep with his eyes open. After about forty five minutes, Hermione finally uttered the magic words, "Wait a minute. . . I think I found something."

Harry looked up from his essay on Veela (for the next day's CoMC class) and DM startled to attention and blinked vigorously.

"Here, listen to this," she continued. "'Magical strength develops like a muscle: it evolves through physical use, and is intimately tied to the user's body. Magical control, however, is tied to the mental discipline. Usually, magical strength and control develop together as the wizard ages and matures, with control evolving to match a wizard's burgeoning power, preventing dangerous and possibly self-destructive outbursts of said power. However, some of the greatest wizards manage to bypass, through phenomenal mental discipline, such ingrained and reflexive control to access the volatile magical potential within them. In rare circumstances untrained minds are mismatched with or find themselves in possession of bodies capable of greater magic than they are able to control-"

DM snatched the tattered book from under Hermione's scrutiny, and both Hermione and Harry frowned at him. DM was looking paler and more distressed than usual, but he forced a nervous laugh. "Three guesses which category I fall in."

The two Gryffindors watched him with concern etched on their faces, and DM panicked. He grabbed the ancient text and his book bag. "Well, thank you for your help," he blurted, then bolted from the library. Hermione and Harry exchanged worried glances.

Hermione frowned pensively, thoughts racing. Harry tried to understand the situation, "Is it 'cause he's gone mad? Could he have had some breakdown that reverted him to some earlier stage of mental development?"

Hermione slowly shook her head as she considered Harry's theory. In her vast readings she had come across a number of the case studies of St. Mungo's mentally deranged patients (they were a favorite of psychologists), none of which had ever exhibited a talent for wandless magic. "I don't think so. . . even when wizards and witches go insane, the part of them that controls their magic still exists. It's reflexive, like blinking. You'd have to be completely brain dead, but then there's nothing to induce the magic."

Harry frowned as Hermione's words echoed in his mind, 'untrained minds are mismatched with or find themselves in possession of bodies', and a thought abruptly occurred to him. "'Mione, Die-uh, Malfoy has made several comments about his body not belonging to him. And he really hasn't been himself lately, almost more than can be chalked up to having had a traumatic summer. . . " Suddenly he felt a bit sick to his stomach and he had to take a moment to breathe before reluctantly voicing his fears, "Could someone have taken over Malfoy's body?" God, if he wasn't Malfoy, who was he?

Scenario after scenario flashed across Hermione's mind and was discarded. Unwillingly, she finally answered, "I guess it's a possibility. . ."

Forgetting any loyalty that had evolved towards his new crush, Harry blurted, "We have to tell Dumbledore!"

But Hermione wasn't sure. "Dumbledore gave him the book, what makes you think he doesn't already know?"

Harry didn't have anything to say to that and settled for looking distinctly unhappy. "Then what should we do?"

Hermione sighed, how had everything gotten so complicated? Why did everything ALWAYS get so complicated?. "Maybe we should go to the source. You know, confront Malfoy."

That was exactly what Harry didn't want to hear and he looked at the clock mounted on the library's wall and sigh. "Ug, I need think about it, but not right now. Right now I've got to go to 'Remedial Potions'."

! ! ! Break: Merlin damn for always deleting my breaks ! ! !

That night Harry's dreams had DM revealing himself to be a Bond girl, then a Veela, then as Uncle Vernon, then as Voldemort. He woke up screaming around three AM, and in minutes Ron was there. "Harry! What's wrong?! Is it You-Know-Who?!"

"Yes! NO!" Harry took several deep breaths, which helped a little. "No. It wasn't Voldemort. It was just a nightmare. There was a beautiful blonde who was trying to seduce me, then she turned into Voldemort and he tried to kill me!"

Ron looked appalled. "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," then he hugged Harry comfortingly until he stopped shaking. Harry calmed himself for Ron's sake, but he remained deeply disturbed, and when Ron eventually went back to his bed, Harry rocked himself to sleep.

Around the same hour in the dungeons, DM hadn't had any sleep the entire night and had moved into the common room to stare unblinkingly at the fire. He knew that even if Harry hadn't figured something out, Hermione would. Anxiety and fear kept him up and he spent hours trying to keep his panic in check and getting more worked up. Thoughts that he had long abandoned popped to mind: maybe he should flee Hogwarts, go back to the forest where he had lived over the summer. It had been maddening at the time, but he was more together now, wasn't he? He could handle the solitude, couldn't he? Mordred strike him down, how could he have been so stupid? He knew better than to invite others into his problems, however useful they might seem! He should have been more careful, he should have tried harder to pass as Malfoy! He was such a failure, such a nothing, maybe he would be better off as a vegetable at St. Mungo's. . . Maybe Malfoy, for all his evilness, was more deserving of this body than him: Malfoy was more of a real person than he was managing to be. He was an imposter! Whatever had possessed him to think that he could do this? It was ridiculous, like a finger deciding that it was going act as its body's brain.

For the first time since it had happened, he allowed himself to cry over what had been done to him, but he wasn't able to cry himself to sleep.

! ! ! Break: Merlin damn for always deleting my breaks ! ! !

DM managed to avoid Harry and Hermione for two whole days, constantly surrounding himself by his Slytherin posse. He was noticeably subdued as well, as though trying not to draw attention to himself: he didn't get in any fights, he didn't act out in class, he didn't even fall asleep at inappropriate times. What he did do is sit and walk and talk as though a hit had been taken out on him. He was jumpy and edgy and his mind felt like it was on speed.

Sitting in DADA on Friday afternoon, he could hear his father's voice in his head, manically insulting him in rhyme: useless, impotent, lame; deficient, stupid, insane; undeserving of your riches and fame; a bleeding shame to the family name; I berate you because I hate you; because I made you and can still infiltrate you-

Snap! DM was sitting as straight as a ruler, every muscle tensed to the point of trembling, quill broken in his clenched his fist. Several of the nearby students gave his strange looks, and Blaise leaned over to say something, but before he could, DM's hand, shaking slightly, shot up in the air.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?," Professor Dokar asked suspiciously. Had the Malfoy boy ever raised his hand in his class? Still, he looked. . . distressed and unwell.

"I think I'm going to be sick, sir. May I go to the Infirmary?" DM was rather impressed that he managed to sound relatively collected.

Dokar inspected him for a second more, then nodded. DM was on his feet instantly, and was out the door before the professor had even finished asking whether he needed someone to accompany him. He sprinted down the corridor, he raced to the Great Hall, he dashed through the west gates, then he ran clear across the Quidditch field. Finally, he collapsed breathlessly on the ground and allowed the fatigue to drain away the panic. He was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay. If he could just stop overreacting. . .

! ! ! Break: Merlin damn for always deleting my breaks ! ! !

Several hours later, Harry and Hermione managed to corner him alone in the library (admittedly, with the help of the Marauders' Map), and sat themselves across from him. He looked terrible, as though he hadn't slept in days.

"We have to talk," Harry stated gravely. DM looked up at them fearfully, as though they had revealed themselves as the assassins he had been hiding from; but, in truth, he had been expecting such a confrontation, and so was not wholly unprepared. Just get it over with, nothing can be worse than what has already passed.

He sighed in resignation. "I know. . . but let's go somewhere more private for this conversation."

They followed him to the nearby Charms classroom in silence, then DM sat himself on the professor's desk. "Okay, let's hear it," he challenged tiredly.

To be honest, Hermione was just there for backup and to satisfy her curiosity, Harry was the one who was really incensed about the situation. "No. Let US hear it. We know you're not Malfoy, as you have claimed several times. So who are you really and what have you done with the real Malfoy?"

DM looked miserable, staring down at his slender hands, and didn't say anything for a long time, much to Harry's irritation. "The real Malfoy died when my father died," he finally offered lamely.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," Harry responded coldly.

DM answered took a deep, ragged breath, "This body was put under. . . the Imperius. So when the caster died, that persona died too. I'm what's left."

It wasn't what Harry had expected and he sputtered, but Hermione had always been quick on the pick up. "So what you're saying is that you're the real Draco Malfoy?," she asked warily, eyeing him suspiciously.

Another unbearable silence ensued before DM finally shook his head sadly. When he spoke, he voice was soft and it wavered fragilely. "No. . . The real Draco died years ago. This body had been under the Imperius for ages, over six years, since before it attended Hogwarts. For a couple of years Draco fought against his father's instructions. 'Make me proud,' that's what Lucius ordered. After a couple of years, and the instructions began to form their own personality, the instructions were too vague, you see, too all encompassing to exist effectively on their own, so they evolved a persona to more successfully execute them. And for a while Draco and the new personality existed together, but how many years can you exist powerlessly, experience horrors committed in your name, without ceasing to be yourself? You don't know how terrible Malfoy was, the things he did: torturing, raping, killing people."

DM's voice cracked and tears shown in his eyes, but he angrily pushed himself on, "It wasn't Draco, it wasn't anyone he wanted to be or even could be. Malfoy was Lucius' perfect son. But how long can a personality take the back seat, watching as someone else interacts with the world before it just ceases to exist? Draco stopped watching through Malfoy's eyes after a year or two, and just clammed up in his own imagination; then after a while, he stopped thinking and feeling too, and by the end of second year, there was just nothing left. A difference that makes no difference isn't a difference at all. He was nothing, and so he faded away."

DM roughly wiped his eyes before any tears could fall, and scrunched up his face to stop from crying, oscillating between anger, anguish, and despair, all edged with a hint of hysteria. Harry tried to digest the new information, torn between horror and pity, while Hermione managed to focus on the missing pieces of the explanation "So who are you then?," she asked cautiously, though not without a hint of sympathy for the emotional wreck in front of her.

DM grimaced in agony. "No one. Nothing. I'm the scraps that are left over when you kill off a body's personality. My mother had been under the Imperius longer than I, almost sixteen years, and she became a vegetable when Lucius died. There was nothing left of her, I guess, nothing left to take control of her body. Or maybe her brain had become so accustomed to living under the Imperius that it couldn't work without it. This body had only been under for six years, so I guess there was something left, some shadow or ghost of one of the previous personalities, because that's what I came from. . . You should have seen me right after Lucius died, I was a wild animal, barely sentient, hardly human at all! I could barely get this body to walk, I didn't even know what walking was. I had no concept of 'I', I was nothing, but there I was, inheritor to a body, memories, a life, a reality that had never been mine! I was a unconscious cloud of detached nothingness before Lucius died, but I can learn and adapt, and I have fifteen years of this body's memories to draw on, and Merlin damn me to hell if I'm not create a personality for this bleeding body out of fuck-all!"

By the time DM finished, his hands were curled into painful fists, dripping blood where nails were digging into his palms; and there was a peculiar shift in the atmosphere, reminiscent of his previous magical buildups, and yet somehow heavier but less explosive. Both Hermione and Harry were looking at him with identical expressions of pity and horror, tinted with concern over the magical shift.

Harry instinctually responded to his pain, and sat himself beside him on Professor Flitwick's desk, and Hermione followed his lead to sit on the other side. Harry felt an urge to place a comforting arm around the boy, but was still too inhibited by the scolding he had received several days ago. "I'm sorry," he finally managed.

"It's not your fault," DM responded stiffly with resignation. The three sat in a ponderous silence for a long time; after all, what could you say after a confession like that?

Finally, Harry tried to ameliorate the situation by addressing something that was weighing on both Gryffindors' minds. "You feel like practicing a little magic?"

DM smiled faintly, a little morbidly. He pushed up his sleeves then held his two arms out in front of him, palms up. Hermione gasped and Harry tensed as two long identical gashes suddenly opened on each forearm and dark blood spilled out, splashing on DM's knees and on the floor; then just as quickly as it had happened, they healed up without a trace. A wave of fatigue hit him and he thought for a moment that he might faint.

This was the first time he had vocalized what had happened, and that act had made the experience more real somehow – an experience that he had been avoiding analyzing for over three months now. He felt a degree of relief at having told someone (someone besides Snape, who had guessed after some strategic hinting), but mostly he felt drained and numb. And so, so tired.

DM stood up abruptly (and a little wobbly) and looked at the seated Gryffindors. "I hope this doesn't change anything between us." When the two didn't respond, DM sighed and moved towards the door. "I'm going to go find someplace to be alone now."

Hermione elbowed him sharply, and Harry forced himself to say something. "Hey, Diem."

One hand on the doorknob, DM looked back over his shoulder. "How about the Room of Requirements tomorrow, after the game, maybe around three?"

DM smiled weakly. "Assuming you're able to catch the snitch by then." Then he was gone.

! ! ! Break: Merlin damn for always deleting my breaks ! ! !

Saturday was the first official game of the Quidditch season: Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff. Harry was distracted for the entire time, what with being nervous about his upcoming meeting with DM and frequently skimming the crowd to see if he had come to see the game. The blond Slytherin never showed, but Hufflepuff got creamed anyway, the extra time it took Harry to find the snitch being disproportionately occupied by the Gryffindor team's racking up of points.

Meanwhile, DM was sleeping. He had crashed the night before right after his encounter with the two Gryffindors and slept straight through (blissfully dream free) until two pm, when his alarm woke him up. As he yawned and stretched he felt. . . better, more like a real person, than he ever had. He felt. . . calmer, saner, more optimistic. Why had he been so freaked out about telling someone? Now that he had, it was as though a great weight had been lifted. It had been a catharsis, as all true confessions should be, and in some way it had been an absolution as well. The anger, the hate, the fear – it was gone. He would never be able to forgive his father, but what was the point of hating and raging against someone that was dead? The dead don't care or even notice, and only the living are hurt. Being unhappy just seemed so pointless all of the sudden. He had been miserable for so long, he almost forgotten why. Lucius was gone, his Malfoy alter ego was gone, he had managed to create something out of nothing, he had a future. . .

This morning was different, this morning the very air hummed with the delight of life. DM bounded out of bed, bursting with energy and excitement, and had to spend substantial effort taming his grin. He almost skipped into the bathroom, empty at this time in the afternoon, stripped down, then took a brief look in the mirror. His face and body were divine as always, despite brittle blonde hair sticking in every direction like a big albino owl perched on his head. DM stuck his tongue out at his reflection.

"Why, you hansom devil, you know I hate you and all you stand for?," he asked cheerfully. He thoughtlessly flicked his hand towards his reflection and had taken a step towards the shower before realizing what he had done. He slowly turned back around to carefully eye the shattered mirror. The corner of his lips twitched, he felt so alive, and he could feel invigorating magic coursed through him like music. He was invincible, he could do anything!

A whim came to him, and it was elating to be able to indulge it. "Advoco aethra aqua," he mouthed hopefully, confidently, and sure enough, a mist formed above him and a cool drizzle came down to wash him. He laughed as he ran his fingers through his wet hair. Today was a great day to be alive.

! ! ! For Christ's sake, does anyone know how to make breaks? ! ! !

PLEASE REVIEW! And please be nice to me. I ended this on a positive note because I'm so desperate to be happy. Today I learned that I won't be getting my job because of an ordinance violation I received 7 months ago. I wish I could just curl up in a corner and die. =-( I hope you deem my explanation acceptable, I have kept with my original plot line in defiance of frequent temptation to change it.


	19. Duels in the Room of Requirements

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Reviewers: Thanx for showing the love!

Ch. 19: Duels in the Room of Requirements

DM entered the Room of Requirements (completely empty except for a wall clock and two chairs that looked suspiciously like EZ-Boys) a few minutes after three, prompting Harry to halt his pacing and look up at him. When he smiled awkwardly, DM returned his own nervous smile. His earlier elation had faded somewhat in the face of his anxiety over having to meet with Harry now that he knew his darkest secret. Harry hadn't freaked out the night before, but who knows what time to think about it could yield. DM vaguely considered the idea of bombshelling the Gryffindor with secret after secret, staving off the boy's eventual rejection with a constant stream of shock.; but no, while it was an amusing scenario, it lacked certain elements of feasibility.

Both boys grabbled for something to say, before Harry found his tongue first. "Why weren't you at the game?" He almost cringed as he realized what he said. Still, despite the fact that Harry had meant it in a pathetic crush sort of way, it was a valid question: as the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, DM was generally expected to attend all games, if only to observe their adversaries.

"I was asleep," DM answered a little sheepishly. "I was. . . knackered after yesterday." There was a self-conscious silence for a moment before he continued, "So, uh, who won?"

Harry's grinned. "Do you even need to ask?"

"No, I guess not," he said with amusement before gradually sobering. "So, you're, uh, okay with everything then?"

Harry wanted to smack himself. He must be as dumb as a brick, because after everything, his felt for the blond stronger than ever. His feelings of tenderness were particularly alien to him, but his body miraculously knew how to act despite his mind's emotional immaturity: he smiled affectionately, and said, "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's kinda creepy, you know, that Malfoy was in our mists everyday and no one even knew. But it's not your fault."

DM hesitantly smiled back for a moment as he was put more at ease, shuffling his feet, then he scowled. "Dumbledore knew."

Rather taken aback, Harry was torn between being mad at his headmaster and being defensive. "How do you know that?"

DM snorted. "He knows everything that goes on in this castle. He knew what had happened over the summer without me telling him."

Harry wasn't entirely convinced (to be honest, DM himself wasn't entirely sure either). Another awkward silence stretched, before Harry plopped himself into one of the chairs. DM followed suit, and so they sat watching each other pensively.

"What was, er, Draco like then?," Harry asked delicately, a little unsure how such questions would be taken.

DM looked up at the ceiling for a long moment before speaking. "It's hard to say. Weak, I suppose. He wanted to please everyone, even Lucius. He made friends with the house elves because they were the closest things he had to playmates, but then Lucius would make him use unforgivables on them." He said this emotionlessly, but then a strain of contempt crept into his voice. "He cried a lot. Cried because Lucius made him kill that stupid pet toad he had found in the pond. Cried when he was punished. Cried when Lucius told him was a poor excuse for a Malfoy. Cried when he found Dylore's body."

"Dylore?"

"The older brother. One of those mysterious Malfoy deaths that plague the family."

Harry didn't know if he wanted to hear. "How did you – I mean Draco – find him?"

DM sighed. "Dismembered. He found his partially decomposed head in the woods on the Malfoy lands. Father had the servants comb the woods after that and most of the rest of his body was found. He was. . . not pleased."

DM stole a glance at Harry, who looked horrified. "And I thought my home life was bad."

"Is that whole cupboard under the stairs rumor true?," DM asked faintly.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. My aunt and uncle were pretty mean, treated me like a house elf when they weren't ignoring me. But they never actually hurt me. I got in a few scuffles with Dudley – that's my obese cousin – a few times when I was younger, but I was left alone mostly. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess."

They sat in silence again, this time more comfortably, as both reminisced over unpleasant childhoods. Finally, Harry pulled himself out of such depressing thoughts, and after a quick glance at the rather morose looking Slytherin, he asked, "You up for a bit of magic practice?"

DM considered the suggestion for a moment, testing it against his demeanor: his demeanor answered with a rush of positive enthusiasm and he shot out of his chair and grinned mischievously. "You're on!"

Harry jumped up and whipped out his wand. "Wait!," DM demanded. Then he closed his eyes, standing completely still, breathed deeply and attempted to calm himself so that he could focus on the magical energy that coursed through his very being. It was so obvious, so close to the surface that it seemed unbelievable that he hadn't been aware of it before. It was like a heartbeat, inconspicuous when overshadowed by life, but most definitely there, strong, constant, and absolutely vital.

He opened his eyes and the grin returned in forced. "Expelliaramus!"

Harry's wand flew from his hand, ricocheting off one of the walls, while Harry himself was threw backwards about three meters, where he hit a spontaneously padded wall. He blinked, momentarily dazed before becoming a little peeved. "Hey! That's not fair! You attacked me after telling me to wait!"

DM smirked. "Potter, Potter, Potter. I would have thought that by now you would have realized that I don't play fair with anyone, no matter who I am. Besides, when it comes down to you and Voldemort, the battle won't be fair no matter what the conditions are."

Harry's expression hardened, and a deadly determination overcame him, the same seriousness that always set in when he thought of his fated encounter with Voldemort. And it was this calculating, survival-oriented part of his personality that told him that he wasn't able to best Mal-Diem, then he had no chance against Voldemort. He mirrored DM's smirk, "Okay, Dragon. Let's see what you got."

What ensued was no less than a maelstrom of magic that could not have failed to draw Dumbledore's notice. Harry tried to stupefy DM, DM deflected the curse without a word and promptly fired back an Incarcerous, which had ropes shooting towards the Gryffindor. Harry dodged them easily, shouting, "Petrificus Totalus!" simultaneously with DM's Rictusempresa (tickling spell); both were promptly followed by two, Protegos.

DM yelled, "Waddiwasi!", and one of the EZ-boys was launched towards Harry. Harry's reflexes hurled himself out of the way, and where he immediately copied DM's move, "Waddiwasi!"

"Incendio!" The second EZ-boy burst into a spectacular bouquet of flames

As the smoke cleared, the two boys took a breath's second to eye each other before launching into another round.

"Silencio!," DM hollered, at the same time that Harry bellowed, "Impedimentia!"

This time, both spells hit their marks, leaving both boys with shocked expressions. And so the next half an hour was spent with DM trying to move and say thing things in excruciatingly slow motion, while Harry went from silently calling him names, to making rude (but amusing) gestures, to laughing hysterically but mutely. When the Impedimentia eventually wore off, it was DM's opportunity to loudly mock Harry, before finally lifting the curse.

They tried again, but this time DM was too distracted and a little aggravated by all the taunting: he tried to say something, but it was ineffective, and he was hit with a Tarantallegra (A/N: dancing), that he wasn't able to respond to at all. Harry watched with a mixture of guilt and wonder as DM promptly began break dancing quite adeptly. When he began a headspin, Harry quickly muttered, "Finite Incantantem", and DM collapsed to the floor in a heap of arms and legs.

DM scrambled to his feet with a degree of humiliation. "Well, I, uh, didn't know I had it in me."

Harry smiled timidly – the old Malfoy certainly wouldn't have dealt with mortification half so well. "What happened? You were on top of your game, and then. . . you weren't."

DM frowned unhappily, looking at his loafers. "I dunno, it's definitely been getting better recently, but it still comes and goes. . . depending on how I feel, I guess."

Harry tried to come up with a helpful suggestion, but such things were really Hermione's area of expertise. All he could come up with was a rather far fetched idea that he was pretty sure was fueled more by his romantic interest in the Slytherin than any actual astuteness of the reason. Still, his mind refused to budge from the thought to consider anything else, and so he found himself warily voicing it. "I could try to show you. . . how to control your magic, I mean."

DM looked at him cautiously, his concern inspired more by Harry's delivery than by his actual words. "What do you mean?"

"Well, uh, I could try Legimency. You know, like that time in the Infirmary. I've been practicing, and I think I can control it. I could, uh, invite you into my mind, I guess. Show you what control feels like," Harry babbled, blushing a color that would make Ron proud. He was remembering his earlier brush with DM's psyche – more foreign than anything he had ever encountered, and far more enticing. Merlin, was he stupid? He wasn't even that confident that it would work.

DM, however, was seriously considering the idea. A normal wizard would have been much more hesitant, but DM was so used to being messed up in the mind, that a little mind fucking almost seemed on the brink of normal. He didn't particularly like the idea, but he was pretty sure he wasn't weak minded or weak willed like Draco had been. If he had to fight off the Imperius now, he was convinced (perhaps somewhat arrogantly; but, considering the unique makeup of his mind, probably justifiably) that he could fend it off. His impulsiveness made the decision. "Okay."

Harry was shocked, and was unable to respond for a few seconds; he had made the suggestion honestly thinking that DM would refuse. Finally, he forced himself into motion and sat down cross-legged on the ground. "Um, okay then. You should probably sit down. I can't tell you how many times I found myself face down on the floor after doing this."

DM apprehensively lowered himself to the ground, and they stared intimately into each other's eyes, both a little taken aback by the degree of trust they felt for the other. DM smiled weakly, "Lay it on me, then."

Harry tried to smile reassuringly, though he felt incredibly nervous. Merlin, everything was moving so quickly, so unpredictably! "Legimens!"

The surrounding room shrunk almost instantly and he promptly found himself enveloped by the oddly familiar obscurity. Something was there, something alive and sentient, but it was indistinct and intangible, sort of like parts of a language that he didn't understand. But his id understood the indecipherable language, and want desperately to join in the free floating. Harry knew he had to act quickly if he was going to avoid a self-indulgent sauna in DM's strange mind. He purposely pulled back into his own mind, leaving a great inviting chasm in his wake, and sure enough, he quickly found himself back in his mind, accompanied by a nebulous presence. He single-mindedly tried to focus on his magic, on the feeling he experienced when he was using his wand. His magic was controlled, sometimes to the point that nothing happened. Several embarrassing incidents in Transfigurations, when his magic was simply. . . constipated, as though his subconscious new that his ineptitude at the particular spell in question would certainly lead to disaster if it didn't prevent its attempt from the get go. Next came the precision he forced on himself during his Charms and Transfiguration OWLs, hours of meticulous practicing with Hermione. . .

Then, inadvertently, through some bizarre mental connection, his mind flashed to fourth year, to his confrontation with Voldemort. . .

To the feeling he felt when he threw off that monster's Imperius; the determination, the fortitude, the hatred that pulsed through his very soul as he defied the power; his soul screaming that the power of magic was nothing to the power of the mind.

To the feeling as his curse met Voldemort's, and the two cables of magical energy meeting in mid air and battling for supremacy; magical threads shooting off into every direction, but an unwillingness of give up using Harry's body to fuel his defense to the god awful end. NO! I will not die you slimy, death eating scum son of a bitch! YOU FIRST! YOU FIRST! I AM NOT AFRAID, I AM BLOODY FUCKING PISSED OFF AS ALL HELL! DIE, YOU COMPLETE WASTE OF TWO BILLIONS YEARS OF EVOLUTION! DIE, DIE, DIE!!!

The rush of emotion so intense that it was unidentifiable forced Harry to reflexively pull back, and both Harry and DM were ripped from the memory, suddenly and disorientedly finding themselves laying on the floor and panting heavily. Both boys took several minutes to calm themselves and regain control of their haywired feelings and thoughts.

"That was extreme," DM finally muttered huskily.

Harry waited a moment before responding. "Did it work?"

DM carelessly muttered, "Lumos." His mind was incomplete disarray, but some part of his subconscious had recognized and picked up on Harry's phenomenal control and latched on to it instinctively, like mother to its child, like memory to something it already knew: the whole room suddenly exploded in a blinding splash of light.

"Agh! Turn it off! Turn it off!"

"Nox!"

Then the room went pitch black, to the point where neither could see the hands they held up before their faces. There was a heavy beat of silence, then they both burst into relieved laughter – the only stimuli in the empty room.

DM repeated his spell, "Lumos!", this time keeping in mind a softer sort of lighting. Sure enough, the room was instantly bathed in a far more acceptable level of illumination.

Harry grinned, feeling too drained to do much more than what his id dictated. "Did it work?"

DM grinned, feeling equally drained and cheerful. "I have no idea. But I will choose to believe for the moment that it did."

The two lay there for a while longer, laughing and joking tiredly, before a comfortable, intimate silence set in. DM eventually propped himself up on his elbow so that he lay watching the tousled Gryffindor, and interrupted it with a hesitant question, "What did it feel like – my mind, I mean?"

Did he have to ask that question? Harry REALLY didn't want to answer, so he focused on the ceiling and tried to act normal. "I dunno. Like your mind, I guess. Why? How did mine feel?"

DM looked unhappy with his answer, but tried to muster a reply. "Uh. . .like stone. Like something big and powerful and permanent. Excitable on the surface, perhaps, but with immovable foundations. . . does that make sense?"

Harry was flattered, though it wasn't an impression he had ever held of his own mind. He tried to understand how his mind might seem to an outsider. If he had instead looked over at DM, he would have seen an almost frightened look on the blond's face.

"But, Harry. Just tell me. . . did my mind, did it feel. . . normal? Sane? It didn't feel like. . . it was going to fall apart, did it?," he asked vulnerably.

Only then did Harry understand the motivation behind DM's question, and his heart went out to him. He turned to face the Slytherin, propped himself up on his own elbow in a mirroring position, and he gazed searchingly into unguarded azure eyes. If he wanted to, he could really hurt his long time rival by simply confirming his worst fears.

Instead (curse these impulses!), he reached out with his free hand and fingered a strand of platinum hair that had escaped its twist, and his eyes left DM's to wistfully study the angelic features. "Your mind is beautiful, Diem. Like. . . honey. Sweet and sticky. . . and a little addictive."

Harry's words were nervous, but earnest, and he was rewarded with a big, happy grin. In fact, DM was so relieved that he spontaneously leaned forward and planted an ungraceful, slightly painful kiss on Harry's mouth. He quickly pulled away, and upon seeing the look of shock on Harry's face, immediately recognized his mistake.

DM scrambled to his feet and took a glance at the wall clock. It was well past six, but if he hurried, he could make it to the Great Hall in time to get dinner. "Well, dinner time," he blurted. "I'll see you around."

Then he fled from the room, leaving a very confused Harry in his wake.

! ! ! This is a break. ! ! !

Harry spent Sunday with Ron (who was feeling a little left out), doing homework and playing chess and exploding snap in the Gryffindor commons. Most of DM's day was occupied being helped through his homework mostly by Hermione, but in the evening by Blaise and Pansy. Things were settling down pretty well with the Slytherins. Hermione, on the other hand, had had about a million academic questions about his "condition", making him feel a little like a freak on display. Still, she had pleasantly (though somewhat reluctantly) backed off when he had expressed his irritation at her probing. All in all, it was a good day.

Monday and Tuesday were fairly typical, if one had come to accept relatively amiable (if limited) interaction between the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins as typical. Dean and Seamus still attempted some form of outward hostility, but now Millicent, Vincent, Greg, and the rest of that crowd would just look at them as if they were hopelessly and pathically out of the loop, then promptly ignore them. Things were a little different amongst the other years, but the explosive hostility that had centered for years around Potter and Malfoy's class had noticeably dimmed.

Which brings us, the readers, to Tuesday evening: another DA meeting. Dean Thomas and Hannah Abbott were scheduled to lead the session, though Abbott failed to appear, due a rather irresponsible last minute decision that she was too shy and embarrassed to display leadership in front of her peers. Dean, however, did an impressive job: the dark skinned boy had been taking Karate since he was six. By the time he started Hogwarts, he was a brown belt, but over the five summers since then, he had progressed to a black belt. And he wasn't shy about demonstrating his skill and technique.

The DA members, which now included DM, Goyle, and Crabbe (who had inevitably joined his best friends, Greg and 'Malfoy'), watched with a degree of admiration as Thomas took down Ron Weasley, Millicent Bulstrode, Zack Smith, Ginny Weasley (trying to redeem her brother's honor), Justin Finch-Fletchley, Harry Potter, Lavender Brown, and several others. When Goyle challenged him, he had the gall to laugh and offered to take him and Crabbe down at the same time.

He was true to his word, and a few minutes later both bulky Slytherins were slinking away from him cradling various body parts. Dean Thomas grinned arrogantly and asked, "Anyone else?"

Only then did DM feel the need to step up to defend his house's honor, though it really shouldn't have been unexpected. Still, everyone (save the Slytherins, who expected such heroics from their hero) was surprised when DM raised him hand. "I'm willing to go a round."

Thomas sneered adversarially: he was definitely up for putting the Prince of Slytherin in his place. Harry grimaced, knowing that this wouldn't end well, but allowed it to proceed. He and DM had spent much of the last three days exchanging tense, unreadable looks, and avoiding any real conversation. Both were feeling quite a bit of ill-defined and poorly understood frustration towards the other. Harry both pitied and envied Dean for getting to be on the receiving end of that frustration.

At the word 'go', Thomas launched himself at DM. The blond ducked with the ease of one used to avoiding flying fists. A couple of moves later, Thomas scored a vicious kick to DM's stomach, followed quickly by a punch in the face. The hits should have floored the Slytherin, but DM reacted as though he didn't register pain at all, and (in an amazing display of reflexes) he used the opportunity to grab Thomas' leg and yank up upwards so that the Gryffindor lost his balance and fell to the floor. DM was immediately on top of him, his knee lodged painfully in Dean's gut, his leg digging into Dean's groin, and his hands tightly around Dean's neck.

He remained like that for a long moment, long enough to make his point, before jerking away. "See that?," he demanded, looking around at the mixed expressions of awe and outrage that could be found amongst the DA members. "Thomas has more skill than me, no doubt, but still I bested him. How? Will power. Fuck pain, screw danger. Survival is everything. Determination can win every time. If you want to win, you have to be willing to risk everything for it."

DM was looking pointedly at Harry, neither of them listening to several objections being voiced by the crowd. Harry didn't like the message either, but he couldn't help but realize that it just might come down to that. Fine, then. If Diem wanted to teach such lessons, then he could do it properly.

"Okay, Sensie Malfoy," Harry said loudly, earning a few snickers from the other students. "Since Hannah has declined to lead the second lesson, why don't you enlighten us with your privileged insight."

DM glowered at Harry for springing the challenge on him, but the suggestion was actually met quite a few voices of agreement – some from students who actually thought he might have something to teach them (the Slytherins; and Hermione and Ron, who had witnessed more than one impressive display of the blond's wandless magic), others from people who wanted to see DM fail and make a fool of himself. Those few jeers made it completely impossible for DM to refuse.

DM turned to glare at his peers, who went unevenly silent under his steely gaze. "With the possible exception of Potter here, every single one of you needs to do some serious work on your dueling," he growled. "So, who'll be the first to step up?"

No one said a single thing, and most tried to avoid eye contact with the Slytherin; no one wanted to be on the receiving end of his notoriously volatile magic – with or without his wand.

"I'll do it," Harry finally offered from where he stood propped against the far wall.

DM didn't even look at him. "No, Potter, you're last." He combed the possible candidates for a moment longer, then made his selection. "You. Smith. Come show us what you're made of."

Zacherias Smith looked extremely uncomfortable, but he reluctantly stood as he was too proud to back down from the challenge. He walked up to the front of the room and pulled out his wand.

DM sneered maliciously, his body going through the motions it had been trained in for the last six years. "You first."

Looking nervous, Smith forced out, "Petrificus Totalus!"

DM thrust his hand forward instantly, shouting, "Protego! Stupefy!"

And just like that Smith collapsed stiffly to the floor, and DM turned back to the now thoroughly daunted spectators. "Next."

Encouraged by his Ravenclaw peers, Terry Boot tried next, and was put down just as easily; Boot was followed by Seamus Finnigan, who was also quickly defeated by a combination of "Expelliaramus!" and a little physical force. Then, when no one readily stepped up after his defeat, Luna Lovegood indulged her curiosity and gave it a try. She managed a creative and little known spell, "Obstringo ab bracchi!", which caused DM's arms to tie themselves around his body. He looked surprised for a moment, and everyone cheered, but DM didn't even have to counter the curse to respond with his own debilitating, "Impedimentia!"

Once Lovegood was incapacitated, and her curse lifted, a long silence followed before Ron stood, inspiring the encouraging cheers of almost everyone except Harry. They couldn't have known that their hostility and distaste only served to stoke the fiery magic that flowed through him.

DM sneered nastily, "Weasel."

Ron briskly made his way to the dueling space, eyes narrowed angrily and jaws clenched in determination. "Ferret."

DM's mouth widened into a toothy, terrifying leer. "Lets see what you got."

Wanting nothing more than to destroy the creep's maddening face, he bellowed, "Furnunculus!"

The beautiful boy didn't even bother to counteract the spell, opting instead, for, "Incarcerous!" A mere two seconds later, Ron was firmly bound from head to toe by thick ropes, while a the first of a string of horrible boils broke out on DM's pale complexion.

"You fool!," DM snarled, advancing on the immobilized redhead. "You let your anger overcome your survival instinct! If I wanted to kill you, do you really think that BOILS would stop me?!" Now he was all up in Ron's alarmed face, yelling, "If anything, you have done me a favor! Am I not even more terrifying now?!"

With that final question he swung around to glare at the spectators, and it was truly a terrifying sight: several huge, swollen pustules marked crimson volcanoes on the normally porcelain skin, looking like mutant growths caused by some disfiguring disease that one would rather die than contract. Such ugliness on a human, especially such an exquisite one, was truly horrifying, and was only magnified by the cruel smile that emerged. "So who's next?"

The tense silence that followed was finally interrupted by Hermione, who was beginning to figure out the lesson the Slytherin was trying to get across with all these duels. "I'll take your challenge."

Granger held out the longest by far, quickly and systematically countering DM's curses with, "Protego!" She had an impressive repertoire of curses and spells, and used them creatively and with talent. DM's displayed much less diversity of skill, but Hermione still found herself petrified within five minutes when he blurted a fateful, "Protego! Petrificus Totalus!"

DM adopted a blank expression. "Impressive, Ms. Granger. With the exceptions of myself and Potter, you are probably the most adept dueler of the bunch. You display an aptitude for casting and a useful diversity of curses."

Then he turned to his audience and looked at them coldly. "However, alone neither is sufficient to win a duel. You can know every spell under the sun, and you can be as powerful as Merlin, but if you aren't fast enough to take down you opponent before he – or she – takes you down, then it's all for naught. Your speed, your casting reflexes, are one of the most crucial elements in a duel, and the element which you are sorely lacking. You have to be able to fling out curses as easily as you can count to ten! Fancy spells are great, but you better not have to think about them, or even have to remember them, because in the time that takes, you WILL be killed."

He paused for a moment to take in everyone's reactions. Granger (who had been unpetrified by Weasley) and Lovegood were nodding knowingly, as were the Slytherins (all of who had received similar lectures from him before). Potter was watching approvingly from his position at the back of the room, while Ron and most of the Ravenclaws looked a little miffed: it was so obvious!

"It seems so obvious, I know, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be taken seriously. Your reflexes must be taken into consideration when planning your training! Don't focus on knowing as many spells as possible, focus on mastering a dozen or so – spells that you can perform perfectly and automatically, without even thinking. Of course, some of these should be the basics – Patronus, Petrificus Totalus, Stupefy, Finite Incantantum, Protego, Silencio. Everyone should know these, because they are invaluable. Then pick another six, less popular spells for your specialty, to have an element of surprise over your opponent. Once you master those twelve, and I do mean master to the point of being able to do them in you sleep, then work on mastering new ones. . . Useful ones, mind you! Ones that will disable your opponent immediately, and that means no boil curses!"

DM took several long seconds to eyeball the rather cowed DA members, then he snapped out of his Snapesque lecture mode and he looked suddenly very disgusted as he brought a hand up to touch his face. "Now, I know I promised a duel with Potter, but you are just going to have to practice amongst your sad selves because I'm going to the Infirmary."

With that, he stalked out of the Room of Requirements. His 'lesson' had been sufficiently impressive (and frightening) that the students waited until he was gone before laughing nervously.

Harry had a word with Hermione and Ron, then bolted out of the room to catch up with the Slytherin prince.

! ! ! Break. End of Chapter. ! ! !

A/N: I think/feel that I have rushed DM's magical recovery. But I wanted to keep things interesting. For the sake of realism, lets say that DM has been practicing hard for a quite some time. I'm also sorry if the dueling scenes dragged on a bit. Somehow they all got bunched up into one chapter.

Anyway, please review (I deserve it for this nice long chappy!). Each review in my mailbox fills me with pleasure. Appreciation is as good as money. Advice, of course, is always welcome. I am truly interested in criticism, as I strive to be the best writer I can be. The art is everything, I honestly justify this writing as preparation for my Great American Novel. Do I have what it takes? Do I have the skills? What is less than perfect? Anything that doesn't insult my political views, I am very much willing to consider.


	20. One Two, No, Three Conversations

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Reviewers: SARYA, thank you for some very useful (and valid) criticism. I have attempted to address one or two of them in this chapter, and will keep the rest in mind as I write more. Also, ALANARIDDLE, thank you for your input, it is very well thought out and entirely valid. I am having some difficulties with the neglected action part of my plot, but I will do my best to pull it off. Special thanks also to SPENCERBROWN for your ongoing encouragement. To EVERYONE ELSE: THANK YOU!!!

Ch.20: One, Two, No, Three Conversations

"Diem, wait!"

At the far end of the corridor, DM slowed, taking a few more steps before hesitantly turning around. He arched a questioning, scarred eyebrow, but his face was as expressionless as an empty slate. Harry came up and stopped about half a meter away from the strange object of his affections, and actually managed to not look at the boils, and to focus instead on his intense eyes. Harry's mind had been heavy over the last few days, muddling both over the Voldemort situation (a constant worry), as well as over what to do with regards to the unpredictable blond before him. Diem had kissed him this time, what did that mean? Hope, that bitch, could not help but come out full-blown and demand that he pursue the matter, fear and nerves be damned.

Harry looked down at his feet and said, "I, uh, just wanted to talk about. . . what happened the other day."

DM's face went from expressionless to steely. "It was a mistake, plain and simple. I acted without thinking."

Harry still didn't look up, and began picking at his bitten nails instead. "Yeah, I figured as much. . . but doesn't that still mean that you wanted to kiss me?"

DM looked searchingly into the down turned face. Harry was right; though he had acted impulsively, there had been some part of him that wanted to reach out to the endearing Gryffindor. So he nodded slowly. "Yes, I guess so. But that hardly matters, we can't indulge this. . . thing, whatever it is, between us. We're on the eve of war, for Merlin's sake, if we're not there already, and you are one of the key players in that war. Now is not the time to start something with me."

DM's argument was quite reasonable, and that fact alone pissed Harry off to no end. "Fuck the war! I am sick of every part of my life being dictated by Voldemort! My parents are dead because of him! I have to live with my horrible relatives because I'm in danger anywhere else! My godfather spent a decade in Azkaban and then died because of him! The press hounds me because of him! My friends' lives have been put at risk because of him! My whole life has been a test of endurance – not to mention a freak show – all because of him, and now you're saying that I can't even have a crush on someone because of him! Fine, then answer me this: what do I have that it worth fighting for?"

DM was rather surprised by Harry's outburst, but he did a good job of concealing it. He sighed, then after a long pause looked deeply into Harry's blazing green eyes. "You're right. You should be able to have crushes, girlfriends even, or maybe a boyfriend if that's your fancy. But Harry, I'm more trouble than I'm worth. You should have a someone who will be able to give you what you want, who'll be able to stand and fight by you, someone who will make you happy."

Harry's anger was quickly turning to distress, and his voice cracked as he asked, "Why can't you be those things?"

"Harry. . .," DM almost whined, before letting his jumbled thoughts on the issue tumble out in an increasingly hysterical attempt to get Harry to understand. "You of all people know how messed up I am. I can't stand by you and fight by your side. I've killed people, Harry! I've really hurt people, I've tortured them until they were nothing but a pain and blood, then I've raped them! These are the nightmares that plague me every time I close my eyes, and I've sworn never to be part of any of that again! How can I enter into a relationship with you, when I'm barely a person myself?! I'm so fucked up that I don't think I can even like people in that way! Ever since Draco died, I haven't been able to connect with people at all! Mafloy looked at people and saw them for how they could serve his interests. And now when I look at people, I can tell if they're objectively attractive or not, whether they have admirable qualities or not, but it doesn't mean anything to me! In all the months since Malfoy disappeared, I haven't had even one woody! I like you, Harry, I mean I think I do, but I just don't think I'm capable of feeling lust, or having a crush, or whatever it is you want me to feel! I'm nothing! I'm a nobody who is full of anger and desperaton! How can I possibly return your feelings?! How can you even have feelings for me?! You don't know me! You just like the pretty face that I hate!"

His rant ended, and his words wounded, and Harry had to choke back the urge to cry, though his face revealed the pain that the tears that refused to prove. He took a step closer to the equally miserable looking Slytherin, and reached out a hand to caress his face, completely ignoring the sores that blemished the perfect skin. "I could show you," he offered pathetically, his mind grasping for something to say to convince DM. "I mean, you're right, I don't know everything about you, but who ever does? I think I know enough to know that I like what I see. And what I see isn't your pretty face. If you were still Mafloy, I wouldn't like you no matter how beautiful you were, surely you realize that! If you need time, I can wait. If you need me to move slow, I can do that. What I can't do is just give up. I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I don't want to let it go! What if I never meet anyone who makes me feel this way again?! I would never forgive myself for not taking a chance with you. So your sexuality is undeveloped, I can accept that! I can help! It could even be fun!"

Harry and DM looked desolately at each other – the latter torn between truly liking the former and the conviction that he was incapable of being what Gryffindor really wanted; and the former being torn between knowing that they would be perfect together and the fear that the Slytherin wouldn't allow their connection to blossom to its full potential.

The seconds creeped by as they studied each other, before the silence finally became too much for Harry. "Can I kiss you?," he whispered hoarsely.

DM didn't know what he wanted, and his expression proved it, but after a pause, he nodded in resignation. Could things really get any more fucked up then they already were?

Merlin knows where he got the balls, but Harry reached out both hands to cup the DM's face, and tenderly pulled the blond towards him. Harry closed his eyes though DM kept his wide open with wonder, and he kissed his ex-rival as compassionately and expressively as possible. Their lips met, and Harry poured all his emotions into the kiss, desperately hoping to convince the other boy that to take a chance on him. He caressed the soft lips with his tongue, and nibbled on them gently, until DM's eyelids also drooped shut.

As they drew away from each other, Harry heard DM whisper, "Benedictus."

Harry opened his eyes and frowned in confusion. "What was that?"

DM opened his eyes too. "It's a Catholic blessing that my grandmother – from the French side – used to you say after anything significant happened. She said it was like a spell, but it only worked if God wanted to give you benediction. God never listened before, but maybe he will now."

Harry looked hopefully into DM's unreadable eyes. "Does that mean you're willing to take a chance?"

After a long pause, DM sighed, though a little smile graced his lips. "Okay, Potter, you bloody poofter, you've convinced me. I'll give it a try."

Harry grinned. "You won't regret it. Now, let's get you the Infirmary. You look like you've got the world's worst case of chicken pox."

! ! ! This is a break. ! ! !

That night Harry sat behind the closed curtains of his bed, as usual, trying to calm his mind before going to sleep. What a day it had been! Just thinking about Diem made his blood race! Mme Pompfrey hadn't let him stay to keep DM company, saying that it was almost curfew, so he hadn't been able to get in any more kisses, but there was always tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. . . Whoah boy! Cool it! We've got to take this slow, we don't want to scare him off, do we? He's like a wild animal, like a wild stallion, we have to earn his trust so that he'll let us stroke him. . . Stop it! Bad thoughts! No wild horse sex! And stop using the royal 'we' to talk to yourself! Ahhh! Like second person is any better!

Then Ron burst in and plopped himself on the bed, interrupting Harry's manic thoughts. He opened his eyes and stared at his friend quizzically. "Can I help you?"

"What's up between you and Malfoy?," Ron asked accusingly, looking peeved. "And don't you even try to deny it, I'm not as dumb as everyone thinks I am. I know you and Hermione have been spending a lot of time with him, and I thought it was because you wanted to learn his dirty death eater secrets, but I've been noticing how you look at him and how you act around him: like he's your new best friend or something! And what happened this evening?! You left DA to escort him to the Infirmary! He didn't need any help! But your absence was conspicuous and irresponsible! 'Mione can't manage that group by herself!"

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair. He hadn't really thought about it, but it was obvious now that he was going to have to tell Ron the truth, and Hermione too, though he wouldn't have put it above Hermione to have already guessed. They had to know simply because his life was so complicated and so dangerous that such secrets could have dire implications – Sirius's death had proven quite thoroughly that ignorance could be deadly. Not to mention just how difficult it would be hide a developing relationship with anyone from his nosy friends. He knew he could tell them, for he trusted them both explicitly, but that didn't mean that he trusted Ron's initial reaction to be a reasonable one.

"I have a crush on him," he answered calmly.

Ron blinked, then. . . "What!?," he yelled in shocked outrage, and Harry clamped his hand over his friend's mouth.

"Shhh! It's not like that! Diem-uh, Malfoy isn't who he used to be!," Harry tried to explain, doing a particularly bad job.

Ron scowled. "That's hard to believe. What, daddy died and he had a change of heart?!"

"No!," Harry hissed defensively. "Daddy died and he had a change of mind, literally!"

"What is that supposed to mean?," Ron snorted.

Harry took his wand, muttered a silencing spell, then turned angrily to Ron. "He has been under the Imperius for the last six years! That is why he has been acting so strange for the last two months! He's been trying to adapt to having control over his life!"

Ron's expression was a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and concern. "Harry! Surely you don't believe that! It's the classic excuse for all death eaters! He's probably acting under You-Know-Who's orders!"

Now Harry was getting a little irritated. "I know that, Ron! And I believe him anyway! The things I have seen him do, the way he's been acting – there's no faking it! I'm not stupid either you know!"

Ron couldn't believe this turn of events. Harry was stupidly playing right into Voldemort's hands! "Next thing your going to tell me is that his father really was under the Imperius, just like the Ministry says! This is Malfoy, we're talking about! You shouldn't underestimate him!"

"I'm not! Dammit! If you don't believe me, ask Hermione! She was there when he told us!" Uh-oh, he'd played the Hermione card, and there was no way that his outburst could make the situation any better.

"What?!," Ron screeched in outrage, feeling betrayed and becoming increasingly worked up. "You two have been dealing with Malfoy, and leaving me out of it! I thought we were friends! I thought we did things together! I've stood by you against everything! And now you and Hermione go off and get friendly with Malfoy without me! I thought we were friends, but you've been doing things behind my back!"

"We are friends!," Harry bellowed back. "We didn't include you because we knew that you'd react like this! Hermione believes him too, but getting him to trust us has been difficult enough without you constantly hating and berating him! Dammit, dammit, dammit, Ron! Trust me on this one! He's not who he used to be!"

For a moment Ron looked like he was going to continue the shouting match, but then he unexpectedly deflated. Harry had asked him to trust him – and he did; and he trusted Hermione's judgment too; not to mention the fact that Malfoy had been acting pretty fucking bizarrely as of late. And so his stubborn hatred of Malfoy crumbled. "Oh, Harry, are you sure?"

"Yes," Harry insisted petulantly.

Ron grimaced. "I just don't understand. What do you see in him? Even as he is now he's unpleasant, and impatient. He attacks people without any cause, he goes into a rage at a drop of the hat. He's like a rodent, so pointy and skinny and _flat_-"

"He's a boy, Ron! He's supposed to be flat!" Ron was still looking at him with such an expression of skepticism that he felt compelled to continue. "Ron, you're completely biased. He's gorgeous, and I bet almost every girl at this school would agree with me. As for his personality. . . yes, he's impatient, he's unpredictable, he's liable to fly off the handle at any moment, but he's . . . Merlin, he would hate that I was telling you this, and you mustn't repeat it, but he's gentle, and vulnerable too. He's just lost and confused, like me!"

The two Gryffindors stared appraisingly at each other for a long moment, before Ron lowered his head and rubbed his temples. That was when the rest of Harry's confession made its implications apparent to the red head. "Wait a sec. . . does this mean. . . you're gay?," Ron asked scandalously.

Harry sighed – this wasn't a topic he was very sure of himself. "I don't know. . . I really like Malfoy, but he's the only bloke I've ever had a thing for. And there've been a few girls I've fancied, like Cho, but there's been no one I've fancied as much as him."

At this point Ron was too bewildered to effectively respond with anger. He was almost speechless, though (being Ron) that wasn't enough to shut him up. "Merlin, Harry, as if you weren't a big enough freak. . . "

For a moment, Harry looked thoroughly pissed at his comment; then, in an abrupt turn about, he laughed. And laughed. He didn't even understand what was funny, but still he laughed so hard that tears came to eyes, before he was finally able to choke out, "I-hahah. . . I know. What would-hahaha,. . . what would Voldemort say-hahaha. . . that he's going to be defeated by a-HAHAHA. . . by a dracosexual! HAHAHA!!!"

Ron couldn't help it, Harry's laughter was infectious, and pretty soon both were clutching there stomachs as tear-inducing convulsions of laughter tore through there bodies. "Oh, the humiliation!," Ron gasped between his manic giggles.

Finally, they both sobered: Ron still wasn't finished with his inquisition. "What about Malfoy? Does he actually like you back?"

"You don't have to sound like that would be so impossible," Harry responded darkly, before submitting to Ron's glare and answering the question. "He doesn't know how he feels. He's confused I guess. But he did agree to a trial period."

"Harry. . .," Ron groaned, smacking his palm against his forehead.

"I know, I know. Just trust me, okay? I won't let this blow up in everyone's face." In other words, keep your fingers crossed. . .

Ron studied Harry for a long moment, and it was almost as if he could read the Boy-Who-Lived's thoughts. "Merlin, Harry, I hope you know what you're doing."

! ! ! This is break. ! ! !

Meanwhile, it was a little past eleven, and Snape was dozing off at his desk. In his hand he held a scroll that he had been trying to grade, but his eyes were almost completely closed and his head was swaying slightly. Suddenly, his head jerked straight and his eyes flew open as he startled awake. Had he heard something?

He listened closely for a moment, then decided it was nothing. He blinked several times, trying to inspire a little adrenaline to keep him awake for a little while longer, then he focused once again on the barely legible scrawl before him.

Then he heard it again: a faint rap on the door.

His eyes flickered up at the clock on his wall. Eleven fifteen. His eyes narrowed in annoyance; whoever it was better be in the late stages of a lethal crisis. "THIS BETTER BE AN EMERGENCY!," he bellowed angrily.

The door didn't open. After a beat Snape sighed. It was probably some sniveling first year traumatized by some unspeakable nightmare. Merlin, he really disliked children – disgusting, snotty, brainless maggots. How on Earth had he ended up as a teacher?! "WELL! DON"T JUST STAND OUT THERE! COME IN!"

The door inched open, and DM poked his head in, looking as though he was in the last stages of a lethal crisis. Snape's demeanor did a complete one eighty: his harsh expression faded into one of unfamiliar concern and he stood up to take several steps towards the blond. "Draco! Come in! Sit down!"

Though it was hard to tell by the voice in which he issued his instructions, Severus was thrilled by DM's appearance. Ever since he had found out at the beginning of the school year, he had wanted nothing more than to help his godson, to get to know who the boy was now, to reestablish a relationship with the child that had years ago sat on his knee and pulled his hair. . . the only child he had ever truly cared for. . . to make some connection with Narcissa's only living child. . .

But the old Draco Malfoy had been so aloof and distant, and so like his father; and this new version had made it absolutely clear that he wanted no help whatsoever from his head of house. Severus had tried; indeed, he had made more overtures towards his godson than his pride and general personality would normally allow. But always the same response, along the lines of, "I'm fine! I don't want any help! I can deal with this myself!"

Actually, DM had come to Snape twice, both times with bruises, looking like he was about to explode with rage. And both times, all Snape could do was listen to the boy rant and rave, and – once – extinguish a spontaneous conflagration that erupted on his carpet. Both times, DM had raged until he was nearly exhausted, curtly thanked his professor, then stormed out of the office.

This time, however, was clearly different. DM's improvement had shown remarkable improvement during the course of November, and now here he was, looking distraught. Maybe this time he would be able to get something out of the boy besides an angry tirade against anyone and everyone under the sun.

DM despondently moved towards – then sprawled himself on – the couch Snape gestured to. Snape lowered himself into the sofa seat across from his godson. Snape was not a particularly sensitive or sympathetic individual, but the boy before him made him wish he was. "What's wrong?," he asked roughly, but with obvious effort to show his concern.

DM sighed miserably, then opened his eyes to look pathetically at Severus. He had thought he could navigate everything on his own, and he had done a magnificent job, through nearly impossible times, but now everything was getting so. . . complicated. "I think I may have just made a serious error of judgment."

Severus felt a stab of fear as the only somewhat farfetched possibility occurred to him that perhaps Draco had snapped and killed someone. "What did you do?," he questioned fearfully.

DM leaned forward and grasped his head as though in pain, his body twitching oddly. His mind felt like it was in chaos, and thoughts were hard to string together. "I think. . . ," he ground out, "that I've gotten myself involved in something completely out of my league. . ."

Not with Voldemort! Surely not. . . that wouldn't make any sense! "What? How? With who?" Severus tried to restrain the influx of panic.

"Potter."

Potter?! "Potter?!" Now Snape was getting frustrated and annoyed. "Draco, are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Every word past DM's lips was an agonizing effort and the expression on his face clearly conveyed this to Snape. "Potter and I. . . we're doing something together. . . I don't know what. . . Fuck! I can't think!" Damndamndamn!!! He had been doing so well! His mind was having a meltdown!

Severus watched worriedly as his godson started clutching his hair tightly, ripping it out of its twists, and he was gasping raggedly for breath. He did what came naturally: he reached across the divide and smacked the boy, then proceeded to talk him down. "Breathe! And calm down, for Merlin's sake! Get a hold of yourself. You're just having a panic attack. Whatever is going on between you and Potter, I doubt it is worth all this. He hasn't convinced you to run off on some hair-brained scheme, has he?"

DM was doing his best just to breathe, but he managed to shake his head.

"Good. Then I find it hard to believe that whatever is going on is worth all this hysteria. For all his faults, there is only so far astray that little cretin will lead you. If this is about DA, I know you and a few others have been attending. I think it's a good idea, actually."

DM shook his head again, but by this point Snape had managed to talk long enough for him to partially pull himself together. Keep it simple, don't think about the big picture, just focus, focus, focus. . . "He kissed me."

"What?!" Uh oh, maybe that wasn't the best way to but it. Snape looked furious and he jumped to his feet. "HE DID WHAT?! That little bastard! How DARE he take advantage of you like that?! Dumbledore will hear about-"

"No!" Now DM was on his feet too, looking determined and borderline hostile. "Don't you dare! I came here for advice! Not to have you meddle in my life! I'm so fucking stupid! I should have known better than to expect you, than to expect. . ." He faltered as he mind spun around like wheels off the pavement. It was as though he had used up all his mental reserves during his trying conversation with Potter, and now all he could do was try to keep himself from falling apart. "Ahhh! Just stop! Sit down! Talk to me! Just don't! Do you here me?! Don't don't don't!"

Reluctantly, Snape sat down, mostly because DM's behavior made it obvious that his anger wasn't helping. What DM needed right now was a voice of reason and rationality. Not someone joining him off the deep end of sanity. "I hear you. I won't tell Dumbledore. Now sit down, you're just making yourself hysterical. I'll listen to what you say if you can say it calmly."

DM dropped back onto the couch, and tensely sat there for several long seconds, breathing heavily but evenly as he tried to subdue his mind. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked directly at his godfather.

Severus was worried. Yes, DM had been showing remarkable improvement, but this episode just proved that he hadn't improved enough to deal with a certain degree of pressure, and surely that meant that he shouldn't be subjected to Potter's advances. But he had to be rational about this, and get all the facts. "Tell me what happened," he said coolly, almost with forced disinterest.

DM looked at him warily, but finally spoke., pouring out the story in a miserable rant. "Him and Granger figured out that something was wrong. . . Well, he had kissed me before that, and I had practically beat him to pulp. . . But then they confronted me, thinking that I was something that had taken over Malfoy's body, which I guess I am in a way. . . so I told them the truth. . . and after that, well even before that, Potter had been meeting up so that he could help me figure out my magic. . . but this time when we met up, after having told him everything, it was easier to cast spells, and we dueled, and everything was so great, then I kissed him, but I was afraid, so I ran away. And then today, after DA, he confronted me, and I told him just what you're thinking – that I'm too fucked up to be anyone's anything, that he deserves someone better, someone who's not hopelessly crazy. But he said he wanted me anyway, and I liked that, and he said that he would help me, and I liked that too. . . and I was so stupid! I shouldn't have listened to him! I am too fucked up to be anything to him.. . ."

DM looked as though he was going to continue, but Severus felt it was high time to interrupt. It was clearly a very. . . delicate situation. If he encouraged his godson to break off with Potter, then it would only reinforce his rather low opinion of his self-worth, which he certainly didn't want to do. But surely anything that happened with Potter would be ill-fated. . . wouldn't it? For all his faults (and there were many), Potter was loyal, and he stood by his friends, would die for them even. . . Maybe someone like that is exactly what the confused and dejected boy before him needed. Carefully, he asked, "Most importantly, how do you feel about him?"

The question just made DM look more wretched. "I don't know. I like him, I think. But it's so hard. . . all I ever feel strongly is anger and hate, and this horrible horrible desperation. Whatever I feel for him, it seems so out of place with the rest of me. . . Maybe I wasn't meant to feel that kind of things. . . I'm scared of it. . . it's not me," he admitted pathetically.

Snape's heart was melting. He knew how the boy felt – to be so bitter and hostile all the time that any feelings of love or happiness were foreign and suspicious. But it wasn't a life he would recommend, especially not to his godson, who had gone through so much already. No, he wanted Draco to be happy, and so he found himself giving unimaginable advice. "As much as I dislike the brat, and cannot for the life of me understand what you see in him, he's a good kid. He won't hurt you. I think it's perfectly normal that you are scared, but don't let that stop you. Maybe he can help you, help you realize a whole new part of yourself, a part that is not so angry and bitter all the time."

DM tried to protest, by Snape barreled on. "And no matter what you think, you are worthy! You deserve all the happiness in the world. And if all that happiness comes with Potter's face on it, then you deserve the bleeding Boy-Who-Lived."

DM looked a little shocked, but managed a weak smile, and for a brief moment Severus felt the unwelcome and completely out of character urge to hug the boy. Instead he stood and glared. "Now if you are finished wallowing in completely unwarranted self-loathing, it is almost midnight, and both of us have to be up early tomorrow."

DM got up and looked into his godfather's eyes for a long moment before reaching out his hand. "Thank you."

Snape nodded, and shook his hand. Then DM left to return to his dormitory.

! ! ! This is the chapter break. ! ! !

Please review! I promise, the action is on the way! Just wanted to round out the fact that DM and HP do not exist in a vacuum, which is one of my perpetual struggles in writing.


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